by Dianne Emley
She couldn’t blame everything that was wrong in her life on T B. Mann. Like a skilled predator, he’d taken advantage of her weakness, but the weakness had been hers before he’d dug in his talons.
She indulged in a guilty pleasure. Having Emily out of the house for a few days would be a relief. She had a lot on her mind and much to do.
“Ken’s not an issue. He’s a boy.”
“Okay, fine. Emily, I asked you to get the blouse you had on this morning and put it on over that T-shirt.”
Emily huffed with the melodrama that only a teenage girl could muster. She said sarcastically, “Yes, ma’am.”
“You just earned another week of being grounded.”
“But there’s a dance—”
“Emily, keep it up and you’ll be grounded until you’re eighteen.”
Vining got out of the car. She was deeply disturbed about their confrontation. She had spent most of her life trying not to be like her mother. Patsy had gone through men as quickly as she went through bot-tles of drug-store cologne. She’d generally ignored her two daughters unless there was an opportunity to display them like cute accessories.
Vining swore that Em’s life would be different. She’d made sure that Emily had a good relationship with her father. Wes had his faults. More than most men, in Vining’s humble opinion. But he deserved credit for being there for his daughter, providing emotional and financial support— after he’d abandoned her, of course.
Vining’s focus during Emily’s life had been to give her a steady calm, and secure home. She’d held tightly to the effort not to mimic her life with Patsy. Had the force of her viselike grip led to the same result, another daughter alienated from her mother?
FORTY
THE GROCERY-STORE MANAGER GAVE VINING THE NAME AND PHONE number of the security firm the shopping center’s property-management company had used for the last fifteen years.
When she returned to the car, Emily had followed her instructions and was wearing the short-sleeved blue blouse she’d been wearing when she’d left the house that morning. Listening to her iPod, she slid her eyes to acknowledge her mother’s return.
Vining winked and received a tiny, but welcome quiver of a smile back. She reflected that maybe her bond with Emily was not hopelessly ruptured. Maybe it never could be. Perhaps that was the eternal saga of mother and daughter. As much as Patsy often infuriated her, Vining still made an effort to see her and to honor her birthday and Mother’s Day.
Vining turned left onto California Boulevard, heading for Arroyo Parkway and the 110 freeway to head home to Mt. Washington. While Vining was stopped at the light at Fair Oaks, Emily surprised her.
She yanked out one of her ear buds and asked, “When’s the last time you saw that house?”
Vining knew without asking that “that” house was the one where T. B. Mann had ambushed her, where the first strand of yarn had been pulled, where her life had started to unravel— the house at 835 El Alisal Road.
Vining had also been thinking of the house. She always did when she was in that neighborhood.
“It’s been a while,” she replied.
“Have you ever gone back inside?”
“Never.”
Just parking across the street from the house was sufficient to take her breath away. Once, she’d tried to walk up the brick path to the front door, just as she had done that Sunday in uniform, responding alone to a simple suspicious-circumstances call in a safe neighborhood that saw little crime. She was only able to make it a few feet down the path before her devil of fear came to call, draining the blood from her extremities, making her hot and chilled at the same time, filling her head with metal shavings that pinged and abraded, leaving room only for a single, compelling thought: Flee!
“Let’s go,” Emily said.
Vining continued on California, past Arroyo Parkway. After a few blocks, she turned right on El Alisal Road, entering a well-kept neighborhood of mostly two-story Colonial Revival or Spanish Revival homes built in the early years of the last century on spacious lots. The streets were lined with trees as old as the homes, with a different type on each block: magnolia, cyprus, elm, and camphor. The camphor trees’ expansive branches created a green canopy over those streets. The gentle Midwestern style of the neighborhood was an anomaly in Southern California and thus was a favorite filming location for movies, television, and commercials.
It seemed as if nothing bad could ever happen in this neighborhood. Of course, that made it all the more salacious when something did.
Vining parked at the curb in front of 835 El Alisal Road. The sight of the house alone was enough to incite uneasy feelings. Today, the feeling was enhanced by a For Sale sign that said OFFERED BY DALE DAVID REALTY. An identical sign had been on the lawn the day Vining had responded to that suspicious circumstances call. T B. Mann had worn a dark wig and the Brooks Brothers polo shirt to match the realtor’s photo on bus benches around town.
Emily stated the obvious. “It’s for sale again.”
“What happened to the people who just bought it?” Vining asked. “They’d moved in and remodeled.”
She had learned that much from Kissick. He’d found out that the new owners had gutted and redone the kitchen. Maybe they’d had plans to do so anyway or maybe they’d tried to remove traces of the crime that had happened there. She wondered if a molecule of her blood remained, having seeped through the grout of the tile floor, missed when the subfloor had been routed, even though the construction crew had likely been given specific instructions to get rid of every speck of blood.
If only it was that easy to eradicate bad karma. Vining wasn’t able to get rid of hers. If a clipping of her hair were analyzed, she imagined it being detected there, like traces of arsenic.
She wondered if, while their children had babbled happily at breakfast over bowls of cereal and glasses of juice, the parents had been aware that a ghost shared their table. Along with that molecule of blood that Vining was certain still remained, the ghost of her and T. B. Mann’s unfinished business haunted that kitchen.
Probably, they had never thought of her, unless a rude dinner guest had made a comment along the lines of “Wasn’t a cop stabbed here?” Not wanting their lovely home to seem tainted, they would brush off the question, perhaps even with a joke, “Her body’s still in the broom closet,” pour more wine, and change the subject.
“You know, Mom, you could probably get the realtor to let you in.”
Vining had considered that. Marvin Li’s aunt was right about a ghost following her, but there was more than one. It was time she finally confronted the ghost of her former self that resided at 835 El Alisal Road. “Maybe I will. But not today.”
She glanced at Emily, who was looking at the house with sorrow. Em could have been sad simply because she was forbidden to text-message her friends. Still, Vining was suddenly sad herself.
While Vining was looking at her daughter, Em shifted her gaze to meet her mother’s. The girl’s tears started anew. Vining was aware that Em’s emotions were rubbed raw, but suspected that these tears had their genesis in a different tragedy.
She took Emily’s hand between both of hers. She found the strength to say to Emily what her mother, Patsy had never said to her.
“Emily I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the pain and distress you’ve gone through since I last walked inside that house. You had to grow up too fast and shoulder burdens that never should have been placed on you. Part of your childhood was stolen. I’m sorry.”
Tears again rolled down Emily’s face.
“I don’t always show it, Em, but you are the most important thing in my life. You are the best thing in my life.”
Emily released a massive sob and threw herself on her mother. Vining stroked her hair and let her cry, her tears soaking into Vining’s blouse.
“It’s okay, Mom.” The girl’s face was mashed against Vining’s chest and she could barely make out what Emily was saying. “None of it happened on pur
pose.”
Vining said, “I know,” without sincerity. It had all happened on purpose, according to T. B. Mann’s evil plan. A taunting childhood rhyme entered her mind. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men …
She ignored it. “I will fix this. By hook or by crook, I will make things right again.”
Emily pushed herself up and grabbed more of the tissues. “By what?”
“By hook or by crook … It’s an old saying of Granny’s.” Vining smiled. “I don’t know what it really means other than ‘in spite of any obstacle.’”
“Mom, maybe things can’t be the way they were, but we can still be all right.”
Vining smiled at her daughter who was wise beyond her years. “That’s a good thought, Em, and you’re right.” She started the car. “But you’re still grounded.”
Emily groaned.
FORTY-ONE
AT HOME, VINING HAD A CUP OF THE STEW AND PACKED THE REST into the refrigerator. Wes came to pick up Emily and Vining was able to offload some of Iverson’s homegrown fruits and vegetables. After Em had left with her dad, Vining freshened up and headed for Colina Vista.
She took surface streets to Colina Vista Boulevard and drove through the center of town toward Angeles National Forest. After passing the civic center and small commercial district in the flatlands, the boulevard started going up. She drove through a residential neighborhood of nice homes on big lots. Farther into the foothills, the road became curvy and pine trees appeared. The homes varied between cozy wood-and-stone cottages and large, woodsy new homes. She passed traces of scorched earth and skeletons of trees and other vegetation, reminders of a brush fire that had recently licked across the hills and valleys. Hundreds of homes had been threatened, but none were lost, as the firefighters and weather worked in tandem. Homemade signs thanking the firefighters and police were affixed to fence posts and tree trunks.
A sign announced that the elevation was 3,000 feet, the next services were fifty miles away, and chains were required in snowy weather. Another sign said that it was fifteen miles to the Mount Wilson Observatory.
The road narrowed and the houses disappeared. An easy-to-miss sign on the road said FOOTHILL MUSEUM and offered an arrow. Just beyond, another sign marked the boundary of the Angeles National Forest.
Vining turned onto a gravel road through scruffy pine trees and sprawling sycamores. The road was barely wide enough for two compact cars to pass. At the end was a cabin of logs and river rock. A gravel parking area was in front. The cabin was on one side of a clearing, suggesting the absence of a building that had previously been there: the barn where Cookie Silva had been murdered.
A carved wooden sign attached beneath the eaves of the front porch said FOOTHILL MUSEUM. FORMER SITE OF THE HIKER’S HIDEAWAY. The posted hours indicated that the museum was hardly ever open. She was lucky to find it open now, but it was just about to close.
She got out of the car and took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The temperature was cooler. The silence was broken only by the songs of birds in the trees. It was a beautiful spot— remote, quiet, and serene. An ideal location for a madman to take his time torturing and murdering a young female cop.
She walked up steps of split pine trunks that had hollows worn into them. She crossed the porch and opened an old screen door that had a wooden frame. A cowbell attached to it jangled. A thick wooden door painted forest green was held open by an iron doorstop shaped like a squirrel.
It was at least ten degrees cooler inside. The ceiling was wooden with exposed beams of round pine boughs and so low that Vining could touch it with outstretched fingers. Small, deep windows were set into the thick walls. Many windows had their original glass that was marked with bubbles and ripples. A large bar where presumably alcohol was once served took up an entire wall. It was of gray river rock with a lacquered wooden slab on top. Now the ancient cash register in the corner was only used to ring up the few souvenirs for sale: stuffed brown bears, fake Indian arrowheads, trail maps, and slender books by local historians.
Cases displayed antique tools, household implements, and toys from the pioneer era. Mannequins behind glass were dressed in period costumes: a pioneer husband and wife; a trapper in a beaver coat with a shotgun over his shoulder, holding a string of pelts.
Vining saw a low doorway off the back and figured it led to the room where Axel Holcomb had lived. Through that doorway now passed an elderly man and woman. The man was stooped and shuffled when he walked. The woman was straight-backed and petite. The passing years had made them the same height. Her silver hair was neatly coiffed. She was wearing a cardigan sweater over a floral-print shirt tucked into a slim skirt. He had on a plaid flannel shirt tucked into khaki pants. His wide leather belt had a large, oval silver buckle imprinted with a complicated pattern that Vining couldn’t make out.
The couple reminded Vining of a set of vintage salt and pepper shakers that her grandmother had.
The man spoke first, in a wavering voice, having already seen the badge on Vining’s belt. “Hello. What can we do for you?”
She handed him her card. “Hello. I’m Detective Nan Vining from the Pasadena Police. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“I’m Norton Van Allen and this is my wife, Tressa.”
“Very nice to meet you. I’m hoping to get some background information on the Cookie—”
Mrs. Van Allen interrupted with, “Oh, dear,” and a hand to her cheek. She wore rings with large diamonds and other gemstones. A diamond and ruby cross was around her neck.
The lavish jewelry reminded Vining of her grandmother.
Mr. Van Allen shuffled forward. His voice was unsteady but his gaze was not. “Now, why would you want to open that can of worms?”
“It might help with a case I’m working on in Pasadena. There’s a grieving family who would like closure.” Vining claimed that she didn’t believe in closure. She didn’t believe that crime victims and families could, one fine, bright day in the future, permanently deposit what had happened into the past, but most people did. Yet she continued to chase it. She was not immune to the idea that her motives might be based in the less noble arena of vengeance.
“I won’t take more than ten minutes,” she added. “Were either of you around at that time?”
The old guy wasn’t buying it. “Does Chief Gilroy know you’re here?”
“Absolutely.” Vining guessed that the chief would know in short order. “Did you and your wife live in Colina Vista at the time of the murder?”
“We’ve lived here for sixty years,” Mr. Van Allen said.
Mrs. Van Allen shook her head. “Who could ever forget what happened to that girl? She was such a sweet, pretty thing. It was very hard on everyone in our little village.”
“Did you work at the Foothill Museum then?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Van Allen said. “We’ve run the museum ever since it opened. I used to come here by myself and was never afraid. There was a period of time when he was here, too.”
Her husband glowered, not happy with his wife being forthcoming.
“You’re speaking of Axel Holcomb?” Vining asked.
“It was a long time before I came back,” Mrs. Van Allen said. “But there was no one else to take care of the museum and keep it open for the schoolchildren. I don’t come here by myself anymore. Norton comes with me now.”
She looked around the area as if it were evaporating before her eyes. “I don’t know what will happen to this place when we’re gone. The people who own the land are getting up in years, too. Their children … No one cares about tradition anymore.”
Mr. Van Allen patted his wife’s arm.
Vining smiled and said, “The two of you don’t look like you’re going anywhere anytime soon. You’re the picture of health.”
“Well, we’re here today,” Mr. Van Allen said. “We’ll give you a little tour, since Chief Betsy said it was okay.”
Mrs. Van Allen said, “We just love our poli
ce chief. She’s one of the best things to happen to Colina Vista.”
Mr. Van Allen raised his hands. “This is pretty much the whole museum, right here. Guess you’re more interested in where he lived. That’s in the back.”
They walked through the low doorway and entered a short hallway. At the end was a door that led outside. On the right was the door to a restroom. A sign on it indicated it was unisex. A door on the left was closed.
Mrs. Van Allen opened it, gesturing for Vining to enter while she stayed in the hallway. Mr. Van Allen followed Vining inside.
The small room was now a storeroom. There was a sink, a mirror, and a desk. Shelves were bracketed to the wall. Boxes of office supplies and the souvenirs for sale in the museum were on the shelves. Mops, brooms, a bucket, and a plastic carrier with cleaning supplies stood in a corner. It was a corner room, and there were windows on both outside walls.
Mrs. Van Allen leaned into the doorway and pointed. “That’s where his bed used to be.” She added, through clenched teeth, “It was covered in blood.”
Vining asked, “Mrs. Van Allen, were you ever afraid of Axel when you were with him by yourself?”
She blinked as she thought. Her eyelids were adorned with pearled blue shadow. “No, I can’t say that I was ever afraid. Axel was always nice and polite to me. I heard the stories that went around town about the trouble and fights he got into, but I never had a lick of a problem with him.”
Vining peered out one of the windows. “When he confessed to that terrible murder, what did you think about that?”
“We were shocked,” Mr. Van Allen said. “Everyone was.”
