Room for Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  My plan went off perfectly.

  At exactly three forty-five, I met Misty and Charlie in the lobby of the station. I suggested to Charlie that he might find a snack in the employee breakroom. Without protest, he disappeared down the hallway like a bloodhound in search of treats. Which left Misty and me to wander down the hallway just in time to accidentally-on-purpose run into Dr. Sam as he was leaving the studio.

  “Misty? Misty Dawn?” The doctor stopped in his tracks, put his hands in the air, and stared at Misty like she was a rock star. “Aren’t you the leading authority on southwestern herbal remedies?”

  I couldn’t have counted on it going better. Without waiting for her to respond, Dr. Sam took Misty’s hand between his own well-padded paws and smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you. My name’s Sam Willard, Dr. Willard, but people around here call me Dr. Sam.”

  I jumped in quickly and reminded Misty that Dr. Sam was one of our midday hosts.

  “Maybe you remember Dr. Sam was who Sheri was listening to about the West Nile Virus. But lately, he’s been working on a study concerning traditional versus herbal medications.”

  “Carol, please,” Dr. Sam interrupted, “I don’t want to bore you all with that now. I’m sure you’re both very busy. Perhaps, if Ms. Dawn agrees, she and I might meet sometime. I’d love to know about her research. Maybe we could arrange for tea. One of your specialties, perhaps?”

  Misty hunched her shoulders to her ears and smiled. “Please, call me Misty. And yes, I’d love to have tea. Carol can set something up, but you’re quite right, now’s not the time. As you might suspect, we’re here on urgent business. I’m working a case, and I have a number of loose spirits I need to wrangle. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have a meeting with the news director.”

  I glanced over at Sam and winked. “I’ll call you then. Next week good?”

  He nodded, squeezed Misty’s hand, and wished her well with the wrangling of those loose spirits, then left us in the hall.

  Misty linked her arm under mine, and as we continued down the hall toward Tyler’s office, she whispered in my ear, “Mind you, Carol, it’s always best when you meet a man who’s totally smitten with you to appear busy. It makes life ever so much more interesting.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Sunday night I introduced Misty as my special guest and co-host for the evening. In the back of my mind, this was my last chance to do something that might attract Sally. If Sally had tuned to my show before because of the talk of relationships between men and women, with any luck, maybe she would again.

  I opened, sharing with my listeners that after last week’s show I had been thinking about relationships. Was love but a fleeting experience? Was marriage becoming a thing of the past? An institution best replaced by a contract for those who planned to enter into a long-term affair? After much contemplation, I said I had turned to my friend Misty Dawn, who had been responsible for giving love advice to the some of Hollywood’s greatest stars. I then turned the show over to Misty and hoped if Mustang Sally was listening, I had said something to spark her interest.

  “Thank you, Carol. And, yes, I did counsel some big screen names in my time, but I’m not about to name names. I was always above that kind of thing. Capitalizing on someone’s pain and misfortune strictly for my personal benefit? I couldn’t do that. However, I will say this, the rich and famous, their problems are frequently no different than most couples, just on a grander scale and more expensive. Beyond that, there are only three things a woman needs to understand when dealing with a man.”

  “Only three?” I asked half-heartedly.

  “Just three,” Misty said. “If a woman follows them I can guarantee she’ll not only be happier with her man, but also herself.”

  “Sounds a little simplistic, Misty. But I’m game. What are these magic three things a woman needs to know?”

  “First, women need to understand men haven’t the first clue about what a woman is. Not at all. And those men who say they do are lying. Women are a mystery. I can’t tell you the number of Hollywood’s leading men who have told me exactly this. And this, ladies, is to our advantage. To win at love, a woman must remain mysterious.”

  I wanted to laugh out loud, but I resisted the urge.

  “Okay, Misty, and number two?”

  “When a man tells a woman something about himself, believe him.” She chuckled and leaned closer to the mic. “If he says he likes to spend his weekends at the track, don’t think with all your charms you’re going to change him.”

  This time, I did laugh out loud. I couldn’t help myself, and I could see I wasn’t alone, the switchboard was beginning to light up. Matt, my screener, flashed me a thumbs-up sign from the control room. If nothing else, this was going to be a fun exchange.

  Misty continued. “And, if he tells you he’s not into children or interested in marriage, accept that’s who he is. Any woman who thinks she can change a man will only end up losing herself. It’s a downhill slope.”

  More lights joined the brigade. The board lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “And three, Misty. What’s your third rule?”

  “Men need a cave. If your man’s grumpy and retreats to his cave, leave him there. Never, ever, go after a man in a cave.”

  I didn’t interrupt. I let Misty take the calls and sat back and listened. Perched on the broadcast stool with her headphones on, Misty was clearly enjoying herself. In the studio’s low lights, I could imagine her in her prime, like a gypsy fortune teller doling out advice.

  And then, five minutes before the top of the hour, Matt tapped softly on the glass and held up an erasable white board. Sally. Line two.

  I could feel my blood pressure rising. I nodded to Misty, then covering the mic with my hand, whispered, “Let me take this next call.”

  “Welcome to the show. This is Carol Childs.” I tried to sound upbeat. Despite the growing knot in my stomach, if this was Mustang Sally, I needed to find a way to secure her location, something I could use later to track her down. In my friendliest voice, I added, “May I ask who’s calling and where you’re calling from?”

  “My name is Sally. And does it really matter where I’m calling from? I have a question for Misty Dawn. I want to know what you tell a woman who loves a man so bad it hurts. Real bad.”

  The question stopped me. In a split second, the tenor of the show went from lighthearted laughter to a much darker space. I leaned into the mic and was about to ask again where she was calling from, but Misty raised her hand to stop me, as though she knew Sally had something else to say.

  Sally continued. “The type of love where you don’t know any better. You think that’s how it’s supposed to be, and that you can change him and make it better.”

  Misty turned her head in my direction. The thick cataracts on her eyes almost seemed to glow in the low light. I wasn’t sure if she was staring at the wall behind me or if she was in some type of trance, getting a reading off Sally’s voice.

  “Love shouldn’t hurt, Sally.”

  I didn’t dare interrupt. I sat silently and waited for Sally to respond. In the background, I thought I could hear the faint sound of a foghorn. I pushed my headphones closer to my ears and strained for any ambient sound. Then there it was again. The low bellow of the horn. I glanced back to the control room at Matt and pointed to the phone. Could he trace the call? He shook his head. The line was blocked.

  “But it does hurt,” Sally said. “It can be ugly and cruel. And people can do terrible things to one another.”

  “No. No, Sally. Love doesn’t do that.” Misty reached for the mic and pulled it to her, as though she were reaching for the hand of someone she was counseling. “But sometimes, bad things happen when we confuse love with need.”

  “But he needed me.” Sally’s voice sounded strained.

  “And he hurt you.”

  “I tried t
o stop it.”

  “You hurt him too, didn’t you?” Misty paused. “Because he wouldn’t stop hurting you, and someone else you loved. Am I right?”

  I knew Misty was pulling from the information we’d gathered about Sally, but to those listening and maybe even a little bit to me too, it sounded as though she were doing a reading.

  “He’ll never hurt me again. I made sure of it. And men like him won’t hurt other women either. Ever.” Sally’s voice was barely audible.

  “And that’s how you help, isn’t it?” Misty said. “You help other women who don’t know how to help themselves.”

  “I do. Just like you, Misty. I counsel them, and when my words aren’t enough, my friends and I, we take care of the problem.”

  Matt signaled me, we were about to go to a station break. I was afraid we’d lose the call. I put my hand on Misty’s shoulder and nodded to the clock.

  “Sally,” I stood up and grabbed the mic, “I’m so sorry, we’re about to go to a commercial, but if you stay on the line, we can talk during the break. Maybe get you some help.”

  I paused and waited for Matt to switch off my mic and transfer Sally’s call to the studio’s private line. But no luck. When I picked up the phone, the line was dead.

  On the way home, my cell phone rang. It was Chase.

  “You did it, Carol. That was Sally. I knew you’d find a way to get her to call. Did you get a number?”

  “No,” I glanced over at Misty, thankful I didn’t have to lie. “The number was blocked.”

  “Well, I’ve got something. A location, I’m sure of it.”

  “Where?” I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my heart felt like it was about to jump out of my chest. If Chase knew Sally’s location, I was in trouble. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I am the sun’s coming up tomorrow. And with a little luck, you’ll go out with me when this investigation’s over.”

  “Chase,” I said his name as though I were cursing. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Fine. You heard that foghorn in the background when Sally was talking? I must have heard it dozens of times growing up. The sound carries in the night sky. It was a dead giveaway, and to top it all off, it fits.”

  “How?”

  “The West Nile Virus deaths, the foghorn. They all point to the South Bay. If I hadn’t heard the horn, I wouldn’t have known. I’ve been using the station’s signal map to search areas north of the valley. It never occurred to me to check the areas around the peninsula. But when I heard her tonight, I remembered, there was one case of West Nile. And there are horse ranches around there too. I just didn’t think it was likely. It’s such a hoity-toity area, and I was looking for something more rural. But now that I heard the foghorn in the background of Sally’s call, I’m sure of it. Sally’s in the South Bay, down near Rancho Palos Verdes, probably not far from the water. I’m on it, Carol. We’re close. I can feel it.”

  CHAPTER 33

  That night I couldn’t get Sally’s raw, raspy voice out of my head. It stuck like a needle in the groove of an old ’78 LP. The sound of it skipping between the white noise, mixed with visions of Bruno’s body hanging from the Hollywood Sign. Despite the fact I had taken a sleeping pill, sleep evaded me. Finally, surrendering to my angst, I crept downstairs, grabbed my reporter’s bag with my computer and cell phone, and returned to my bed. I had to do something. I couldn’t wait, hoping Sally would call back before Chase called to tell me he had her in his crosshairs.

  I sat on my bed and opened my computer, starting with the Butterflies website. Going all the way back to Jennifer’s original post about Jason and Sally’s suggestion they meet in person. It reminded me of the impassioned voicemail Sally left on Jennifer’s phone. I pulled the phone from my bag and replayed the message.

  My poor girl. Don’t suffer alone. We can help. You’d be doing woman everywhere a favor if you did. There’s a meeting Monday at The Cow’s End in Venice. Eight a.m. It would be good for you to come. But, remember, come alone and no names.

  I stared at Jennifer’s aquamarine phone. It would have been so simple if I could just hit the call-back button. But the message, like the one Sally had left before telling Jennifer to meet her at UCLA, had come from a blocked caller. There was no way I could respond. And, as far as meeting Sally at The Cow’s End went, I wasn’t certain the restaurant was still even a viable location. Sally’s message was better than a week old, and secretive as the group was, I was inclined to think they would seldom frequent the same spot. What were the chances? But it beat sitting in bed and staring at a computer screen. The good news was I knew the restaurant. The Cow’s End was a prime people-watching spot in Venice, just off the boardwalk. And if I left now, even with LA’s bumper-to-bumper morning commute traffic, I could be there in time to scout out the location.

  The Cow’s End was easily identifiable. The black clapboard building with its montage of off-center geometrically designed red framed windows—the largest of which displayed a ceramic, life-sized Holstein—was a watering hole for locals and tourists alike. Outside, a couple of Harleys were parked while a crowd of beach refugees milled about, warming themselves against the cool chill of the sea air with cups of hot coffee, waiting for the first sign of sun to break through southern California’s thick morning fog.

  I parked my Jeep across the street and, dodging several low-flying seagulls, followed the smell of fresh coffee.

  The café was jammed with what looked like regulars, gray-bearded men with ponytails, tattooed women in cowboy boots, and tourists in tennis shoes snapping photos and selfies. On the walls were old Hollywood posters and beach memorabilia commemorating the area’s hardscrabble-to-hip lifestyle. I scanned those seated, searching for anyone who I thought might fit the description of a Butterfly, eliminating the single men and mixed couples. In the corner, I spotted three middle-aged women sitting at a table like they didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “Excuse me, I’m—” I stopped myself before blurting out Jennifer’s name. “I’m looking for a group of women I was told might be meeting here.”

  From the center of the group, an older woman with a short salt-and-pepper crew cut smiled. “Are you a Butterfly?”

  The woman speaking didn’t move her head. I noticed her hands were folded neatly in front of her, immobile in her lap, like small fists. And then the wheelchair. Its presence nearly hidden by her friends on either side. The woman next to her moved her cup away. A thin straw with a lid like a sippy-cup covered the top.

  “DumpedAndDepressed.”

  The three exchanged a look, then looked back at me. For a moment, I thought they might have recognized my voice.

  “I thought DumpedAndDepressed posted she was leaving town.”

  “I was planning to.” I glanced over my shoulder as though I was worried, then started making up what I thought they might believe. “Almost made it too. But he found me. I’ve been trying to reach Sally. We had a meeting set, but she canceled.”

  “She’s not here.”

  The woman next to the wheelchair eyed me carefully, scanning my body as though she suspected I might be hiding a gun beneath my jacket or a cop’s badge. Casually I opened my jacket so she could see I wasn’t carrying. Satisfied, she glanced back at me and nodded to the other two.

  “I’m NoseyNan. This here’s MerryWidow,” she nodded to the woman in the wheelchair, “and that’s B.”

  B reached across the table and shook my hand. “Short for BetterLatethanNever. Why don’t you take a seat? The rest of our gang should be along soon. You’re a bit early, but you must know, Sally and the rest of her tribunal aren’t going to be here, not today.”

  “You know about the tribunal?” I searched their eyes for validation.

  “You might say that,” Nan said.

  Merry explained how she and her deceased husband hadn’t been getting along. They hadn
’t gotten along for a long time, but he had insisted they try to make the best of it. It was the holiday season, and he convinced her he was going to make a New Year’s resolution. Things were going to be better. The holiday was a huge success, with all the earmarks of a Norman Rockwell Christmas. A beautiful tree, the house decorated with popcorn streamers coming down the stairway, and a big family dinner complete with a golden brown turkey. It wasn’t until afterward when Merry had gone to the attic to return the Christmas ornaments that things changed.

  “As I slipped through the floorboards, on the way to breaking my neck, I knew he had planned the whole thing. Of course, he swore it was an accident. The week before Christmas he’d replaced the old floorboards in the attic and covered the area with insulation. All but the area where I had unfortunately stepped. I think his biggest surprise was that I wasn’t killed.”

  “And you didn’t tell anyone?” I asked.

  “I was too afraid,” Merry said.

  “I never said anything either,” Nan said. “I never knew what my ex might do if I did. Plus, I didn’t want to worry my family. All of them had such good marriages. I didn’t want anyone to know the reality of mine.”

  “Our stories aren’t all that different,” Merry said. “Fortunately for me, I found this online group, and that’s where I met Sally. If I had only found her a little earlier, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up in this chair.”

  “And she took care of things for you?” I wasn’t sure how to phrase that.

  “She arranged for my husband to have an accident of his own. And I’m not sorry.”

  “So you’ve kept up with her? And you’ve seen her again? Here maybe?”