by A. J. Carton
“What’s going on with you and Jack?” she asked after Emma said “Hello.”
Before Emma could answer that question, Julie added, “And why did you lie to me about the Facebook guy? Were you two, you know, involved? Is that why you and Dad broke up? Is there something I don’t know?” Her voice quickly grew angry. “Was my whole childhood a lie?”
That’s when Emma decided it was time to come clean.
“First of all, Julie,” she began, “no, there is nothing you should know. And, second, no. Dad and I broke up because Dad wanted to. Not because of Dan.” She took a deep breath. “Dan and I connected later, briefly, while you were in France. His wife left. We had an affair. She came back. We broke up. End of story. I never thought there was a reason you should know.”
Julie took a moment to reply. “You always preferred to play the Virgin Mother role, didn’t you, Mom? I even wondered if you were gay. Like maybe that’s why Dad fooled around.”
“I just didn’t want to complicate your life more than your father and I already had!” Emma cried. “So I kept it a secret!”
“Not that big a secret,” Julie replied. “You were obviously miserable when I got home from France. I thought it was my fault for leaving. That’s why I didn’t apply to any East Coast schools.”
“Please,” Emma begged. “Don’t lay that on me too!”
They sat in silence for a few seconds.
“So…what’re you going to do about Jack?” Julie asked. “I mean, if you get together with this Dan guy - who I gather dumped you to take back his wayward wife – won’t you hurt Jack? He looked miserable last night. Not that I blamed him between Dad showing up and the Dan thing.”
Emma cleared her throat. She didn’t know what to say.
“Mom,” her daughter continued. “Hard as it is to admit this, Jack’s actually kind of a cool guy in a weird way. Not to mention that his son-in-law and Piers have just become best buds. Talk about awkward! Piers now has us spending our summer vacation together.”
“Look, Julie,” Emma sighed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do about Jack. Based on how we left things last night, I’m not even sure the decision is mine to make. You’re right. I hurt him. I broke my promise…”
She was about to recite the rest of the Cowboy Code when Julie cut in.
“By the way, Mom. Speaking of dinner. Dad’s malfatti were delicious! Better than yours, I have to say.”
“I know,” Emma replied testily. “He says he didn’t use any flour, except to coat them. Frankly, I find that hard to believe.” She caught herself. “Why are we even talking about the malfatti? The point is I hurt Jack. I lied to him about Dan. Now he knows it. He’ll carry a grudge. He’s Sicilian. They do that. I’m afraid I’ve lost…”
To her surprise, Emma felt herself choke up.
“I’m afraid I’ve lost a good friend,” she concluded weepily.
Julie’s answer was entirely unsympathetic. “You made your bed, Mom. Now you have to lie in it. Excuse the pun. Have you seen the Dan guy yet?”
“No,” Emma answered. “I keep putting him off.”
“Well, that should tell you something,” Julie said after a pause. “Not that you asked for my advice. Do you plan to see him?”
“I don’t know. I mean, see him? What’s the harm in that?” Emma asked.
“Only you can answer, Mom,” Julie replied. “Harry just woke up. I gotta go. By the way, your grandson misses you. He hasn’t seen you for a week.”
“I miss him too,” Emma said.
“Then come for an early supper tonight. Oh,” Julie thought of something. “Before I hang up. Are there any more skeletons in your closet I should know about, Mom?”
Emma decided to come completely clean. “Just the contractor,” she said.
“Not that guy who fixed up the bathroom!” Julie exclaimed. “With the weird tattoo. Mom, that’s such a cliché.” She hung up.
Emma put her phone back down and stared at her computer. Speaking of skeletons had reminded her of something she’d forgotten wallowing in the misery of her own sorry soap opera - Cory Randall and his forbidden love for Maria Hidalgo Miller.
She brought up the Google screen. Then she typed in two words “Maria Miller”. After that, she typed the word “Riverside.”
Six hits appeared on her screen. Three of them listed middle names: Erin, Theroux, and Lester. Emma eliminated those from her list. They weren’t even Hispanic. She decided to call the other three. It was Sunday morning.
The first one on her list answered on the first ring. The voice on the other end of the line sounded old and frail.
“Hello,” Emma began. “I’m looking for someone named Maria Hidalgo Miller.”
“I’m sorry,” the voice answered. “Who?”
“Maria Hidalgo Miller,” Emma replied.
“You have the wrong number.” The voice sounded angry. “There’s no one here by that name.”
Emma tried the second name on her list.
“Hello. Is Maria Miller there?”
“This is Maria Miller,” a younger voice answered. Emma could hear a child screaming in the background.
“OK,” Emma replied. “By any chance, was your maiden name Hidalgo? I’m trying to locate a Maria Hidalgo Miller who used to live in Coachella, California?”
“What do you want?” The woman’s voice turned cold. “Is this some kind of debt collection racket? Who are you?”
“I’m…” suddenly Emma wasn’t sure who she was. A curiosity seeker? Some kind of voyeur?
“I’m a cousin of someone who used to be called Maria Hidalgo,” she lied. “Our aunt died and I’m looking for Maria in connection with a will.”
Emma hoped her lie would give the real Maria an incentive to cooperate.
“Look,” the woman answered. “I’d love to inherit some money from a long lost aunt, but my name is Mary Miller. No Hidalgo. There are no Hidalgos in my family that I’m aware of. So I think you have the wrong Mary. Goodbye.”
The final Maria Miller on Emma’s list turned out to be a lawyer in the city of Riverside. She was thirty-one years old.
Next, Emma tried Maria Hidalgo. There were twenty-five of those. Eleven had listed numbers. Emma tried them all. One was a twenty-year-old dental assistant. The next few didn’t answer the phone. Emma left messages. Another was a retired naval officer who grew up in Florida. Yet another wasn’t home, but her son said she was a nurse’s aid. That story sounded promising until Emma discovered that the woman was recently arrived from Mexico and didn’t speak English.
The last Maria Hidalgo was at Mass. She turned out to be eighty-six. Maybe Curt Randall’s lover. Certainly not Cory’s.
Looking for Maria Hidalgo Miller in Riverside was like looking for a needle in a haystack. There must be another way to tackle this, Emma told herself.
She tried a different search. This time she entered “Universities and colleges in Riverside County, CA.”
Interestingly, her search yielded only three: Las Lomas University, a junior college and the University of California at Riverside. On her first try, Emma found a Mary Miller working at Las Lomas. A quick search of the Las Lomas website located a Mary H. Miller working in food services there. The department had a phone number listed. Since food services was open seven days a week, Emma gave the number a try.
Someone picked up the phone on the third ring.
“Hi,” Emma began, “I’m looking for Mary Hidalgo Miller.”
After a rather long pause, the voice on the other end of the line said, “I see someone here named Mary H. Miller. I don’t know what the ‘H’ stands for.”
“Can I speak to her?” Emma asked. Her heart had started thumping like a bass drum in a marching band. Something told her she was getting close to pay dirt.
“Can you hold a minute?” the voice asked.
“Sure.”
While Emma waited for what seemed like an hour, she imagined all the classic stories of lives ruined by forbidden
love: Romeo and Juliet, West Side Story, Lancelot and Guinevere, Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal. Where was Maria Hidalgo? Emma asked herself. The Latina who dreamed of becoming doctor? Was she clearing tables now?
Emma’s thoughts were interrupted by a new voice. This one belonged to a woman. “Maria’s on leave. Who’s calling?”
This time Emma decided not to lie about a will. Instead she said, “I found a wallet with her name in it. It has a little money. I want to return it to her.”
“That’s kind of you,” the woman replied. “Let me give you her cell number. She’s had some hard times. She can use a little help.”
It took only a few minutes to get Maria H. Miller on the line.
“I’m looking for Maria H. Miller. H as in Hidalgo.”
“Yes, this is Maria H. Miller,” the woman said. “Is something wrong?”
It crossed Emma’s mind that this woman was used to bad news. She tried to sound reassuring.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “I was hoping to ask you some questions. About someone named Cory.”
“I know Cory,” the woman replied. “Is there a problem at day care?”
“Day care?” Emma repeated. That didn’t sound right.
“You’re calling from day care, right?” the woman asked, her voice now tinged with worry. “I know I’m late, but I’ll pay the bill. I talked to Linda about it already. See, I’m still on maternity leave; and my husband got laid off, and …”
Emma’s heart sank. “Listen, Maria. I apologize. I’ve made a mistake. I’m looking for Mary Hidalgo Miller. She’s about sixty-five years old and she used to live in Coachella.”
The voice on the line immediately relaxed. In fact, the woman laughed. “I’m Mary Hearn Miller and I’m twenty-five. You got the wrong number.” She hung up the phone.
Darn! Emma thought, clicking off her cell. It was well passed 2:00 and she was still in her pajamas. She wandered into the kitchen and ate a tub of yogurt.
Then she picked up her cell again and telephoned Jack. She was glad when her call went straight into voice mail.
“Listen Jack,” she began. It wasn’t the friendliest of greetings. “This is Emma. I’m calling to apologize. For the past week or so I’ve done everything wrong. I’m sorry. You’re a wonderful friend. You deserve better from me. I know I screwed up. But my job is important to me. And there’s another reason I left town. It has to do with Dan. The guy I lied about. Who contacted me on Facebook and wants to reconnect. The truth is, I don’t know how I feel about him. That’s why I couldn’t explain. But I do know how I feel about you. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. It means everything to me to keep it that way. So, if you can…
The phone beeped. “If you are satisfied with your message press 1. If you wish to delete it…”
Emma hung up.
She sat down in front of her computer again and looked at her watch. In an hour she had to leave for dinner at Julie’s. She stared back at the screen for a long time. Finally she decided on one more try.
She brought up Google on the screen. Then she typed in the words: “University of California Riverside”. When the Home page popped up she located a little box in the right hand corner. It was labeled “custom search”. One of the categories was “people”. In that box Emma typed “Mary Hidalgo Miller.”
To Emma surprise, she got a hit. But the name was different from the name she’d typed into the box. The hit was for a Mary Hidalgo-Muller. This Mary Hidalgo was connected to some sort of lab. Emma’s heart started to pound. She clicked on the name.
Seconds later a photograph appeared on her screen. The woman staring back at her was about her age. She had bobbed black hair streaked with gray, large black eyes and clear tanned skin. She looked confident, but stern. No doubt a beauty in her day, Emma noted.
She quickly realized, however, that the biography printed next to the woman’s name was even more impressive than her looks. Maria Hidalgo-Muller was a PhD MD who chaired the biology department at the university. She’d taught there for thirty years, specializing in infectious diseases. She was the author of numerous books and articles, and the recipient of dozens of awards.
Emma quickly checked a few other sites verifying and elaborating on Maria Hidalgo-Muller’s CV.
There was an email address attached to her website, but Emma decided to phone Maria Hidalgo at the biology department instead. It was Sunday. The department was closed. That phone call would have to wait. Besides, it was almost time to leave for supper with her daughter.
Emma shut down her computer. Then she sat there, thinking, for a long time. Maria Hidalgo had not let Cory’s death destroy her. Her life was a success.
Emma remembered what Jack had said the night before about honoring loved ones. About not letting their death poison the lives of those they loved. Who, she now wondered - Curt or Maria - had honored Cory’s life best?
Chapter 23: Sunday Evening – Guess Who’s Coming
When Emma rang the Larkin family’s bell at 4:00, Piers opened the door.
“Come on in, Emma.” Her son-in-law bent down to give her a hug.
Emma marveled that on a Sunday afternoon, Piers still looked well dressed. Did the housekeeper even iron his jeans? she wondered. Every hair was in place. His white Nike running shoes looked like they’d been to the dentist.
“Julie and Harry are caught in traffic,” Piers said. Then seeing her face fall, he added. “Don’t worry. Julie phoned. They’ll be home in half an hour. Frankly, I’m kind of glad to have this time alone together. Want a glass of wine?”
Emma figured Piers was loosening her up to talk about the Gomez case. “A little early for me,” she shrugged. “But sure, why not?”
A few minutes later, Piers appeared in the living room with a tray of goat cheese and filled her glass with his favorite ’07 Jordan cabernet. At $90 a bottle, she tried to restrain herself from chugging it down.
After they’d clinked glasses and taken a first sip, Piers got to the point. “I’ll be honest,” he began. “I’m curious about the trip you and Steve just made. There’ve been some new developments while you were gone. I’ve talked to Steve. I know his clients waived any conflict of interest you may have, so there’s no problem with our talking.”
Emma quickly sorted out her memories of the trip. It already seemed a long time ago.
“Here’s what I know,” she began. “Everyone with a motive to kill Gomez has an alibi for the night he died. Everyone except Curt Randall.”
Piers nodded. “Steve told me that. Diaz, the cousin whom Gomez was trying to blackmail, was home all night with his wife. Carillo, the jealous husband, was seen working in the onion fields.”
“Have you spoken to Cardenas?” Emma asked.
Piers shook his head. “Who?”
“Gomez’s friend who dropped out of the lawsuit. We still don’t know why.”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Piers shrugged. “He didn’t want to jeopardize his job.” Then he raised his hands palms forward. “I know. I know. Legally Randall can’t fire an employee for suing him if he’s breaking the law. But most workers don’t see it that way. Besides, even if they win those cases, all the farmworkers get is a lifetime of appeals.”
Emma nodded. “That’s exactly what Cardenas said. But there’s a rumor someone paid him to sabotage the lawsuit.”
“Who?” Piers asked.
“Rob Peters? “Emma suggested. “He had a lot to lose if his uncle lost that lawsuit.”
Piers nodded. “The police are already questioning Peters. They found a second set of prints on the murder weapon,” Piers explained. “That’s the first new development since you left town.”
“What exactly is the murder weapon?” Emma asked, remembering Maureen Tompkins’ slip about the elk horn handled knife.
Piers shook his head. “A knife,” he replied. “A knife that allegedly belonged to Curt. He swears he lost it weeks ago. That’s all I’m allowed to say.”
“What about Silas
Bugbee?” Emma replied.
Piers scoffed. “The Save the Prunes nut? Why would he kill Gomez?”
“To end the lawsuit?” Emma shrugged. “To give him more time to stop the Chinese fire sale.” She stared quizzically at her son-in-law. “Speaking of Chinese fire sales. What was Bob Monroe talking about at dinner last night?”
“A client in Sunnyvale,” Piers explained. “Chinese buyer. Just like HoCo. Due diligence turned up arsenic in the water. Buyer used it to lower the price.” Piers frowned. “Sounded like more than a coincidence, so I poked around. Found three similar sales. All involving Chinese purchasers.”
“What will you do?” Emma asked.
“Already done it,” Piers answered. “That’s the second new development. I’ve convinced Curt to back off the sale. Till we get more information.”
“That will make a lot of people in Blissburg happy,” Emma replied. Suddenly she felt very tired. “But it sounds like we’ve uncovered more mysteries than we’ve solved.”
As she spoke, Emma looked out the window and saw a car pull into the driveway. She rose from the couch and walked into the hall. A few seconds later Harry flew through the front door and into her arms.
“Nonnie! Nonnie!” her little five-year-old grandson cried. “Mom,” he looked over his shoulder. “Nonnie’s here.”
“I told you she was coming,” Julie laughed. “Didn’t you believe me?”
But Harry had already moved on to his next thought. “Come outside, Nonnie. I’ll show you how I shoot baskets. Dad put up the new hoop.”
Emma looked over her shoulder at Julie.
“Go. Go,” her daughter motioned with her hand. “I’ll make dinner.”
Five minutes later she and Harry were shooting baskets. Emma watched her grandson grow in confidence every time he shot the ball. His face assuming a determined look that she remembered seeing on Julie’s face.
Emma suddenly felt so lucky she feared her heart would burst. Then the image of Curt Randall popped into her head. A man broken by his loss.
