by A. J. Carton
“Nonnie, it’s your turn,” Harry called, waking her from her reverie.
She walked slowly to where he stood. He handed her the ball. She took a deep breath, aimed at the basket and let the ball fly. Swoosh!
“Wow, Non! You made a basket,” Harry called.
But Emma had done more than make a basket. She’d understood something with a certainty she could not explain. Curt Randall needed to know what she’d learned about Maria Hidalgo-Muller.
After the family had finished dinner Emma read Harry a story. Then Piers put the little boy to bed.
When he returned to the kitchen where Emma and Julie were still cleaning up, Emma told them everything she’d learned about Maria Hidalgo and Cory.
“Wow!” Piers exclaimed. “Sounds like West Side Story,”
“More like Love Story,” Emma corrected him. “I don’t think Tony went to Stanford. And Cory more likely was in a fraternity than the Jets.”
Julie rolled her eyes at Piers. “Speaking of fraternities, what came over you and Buck last night?”
Piers shrugged his shoulders. “Just ‘cause you never went to prep school.”
“Thank goodness!” Julie glanced at Emma. “You did that one right.”
“Thanks, Julie,” Emma smirked. “But back to Maria.”
“Back to what?” Piers asked. “She got over Cory. She improved her life.”
“Piers!” Julie cried. “What about Maria’s son? As I understand it, Maria Hidalgo has a son who could be Curt Randall’s grandson.”
Emma nodded. “If the dates work. He’s in his forties.”
“Curt needs to know about this,” Julie exclaimed. “Don’t you see, Piers? This could change his life.”
Piers didn’t agree. “First of all, the chances of this kid being Curt’s grandson are slim. And if he’s not, it’ll be like losing Cory all over again. I say drop it.”
“If it is Curt’s grandson, that might kill him too. Given what a bigot he is,” Julie mused.
“I say, let sleeping dogs lie,” Piers said.
Emma disagreed. “It’s got to be Curt’s choice.”
In the end, Julie agreed with Emma. “The old man’s going to die soon anyway. He should know. And he should know what happened to the only woman his son ever loved.”
“What if she doesn’t want to talk?” Piers asked.
“I’ll find out,” Emma answered, “as long as you’ll let Curt decide.”
Chapter 24: Monday Morning – Love Grows
At 9:15 the next morning, Emma called the number listed on the University of California at Riverside’s website for the Department of Biology. When someone answered, she started to say, “May I speak with Professor Hidalgo-Muller,” but she choked up. That’s when she realized how nervous she was.
“Hello. Hello,” the woman on the other end of the line repeated.
Emma tried to clear her throat. Then she got embarrassed and hung up the phone. At 9:30, she tried again hoping the department telephone didn’t have caller ID.
This time she cleared her throat before she dialed, and even tested her question a few times out loud.
“Hello,” she began. “May I speak with Professor Hidalgo-Muller?”
“Who’s calling?” the voice on the line replied.
Emma had also practiced her answer. “An old friend from Coachella. I happened to be in town.” Emma hoped this would, at least, peak Maria Hidalgo-Muller’s curiosity.
Apparently, it did. After a few seconds, a different voice picked up the call. “Hello,” the person said. “Who is this?”
Again, Emma was prepared. “Is this Maria?” she said.
“Yes,” the woman replied cautiously.
“Hi,” Emma began. “My name is Emma Corsi…”
The woman interrupted her. “Wait. You said…”
“I work for a lawyer in Sonoma,” Emma continued, “and I need to ask you some questions that relate to a murder here. The Gomez murder.”
Emma heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone.
“Have you heard of it?”
“Ye-es,” the woman said even more cautiously than before.
“I think you once knew one of the suspects,” Emma added. “A man named Curt Randall. And I thought you might have some information…”
“Look,” Maria answered, “I haven’t seen Curt Randall in almost fifty years. Believe me. There’s nothing I could tell you about him that could possibly help in your investigation. Now if you will please excuse me, I have other things to do.”
Emma could tell that Maria was about to hang up. Without thinking, she blurted out the truth.
“Maria, please wait. This is not about Curt Randall. It’s about Cory, his son. You knew him, didn’t you?”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. “Of course I knew Cory,” Maria finally said. “What do you want to talk about? What does this have to do with the murder? Cory died a very long time ago.”
“Yes. I know that,” Emma answered. “In the war. And I know you have a son who is in his forties,” Emma added. “And I wondered…”
“How dare you!” Maria Hidalgo-Muller shouted into the phone. Then she hung up.
A few minutes later, Emma called Piers.
“OK,” he answered after she repeated her conversation with Maria. “I agree. She sounds defensive. Maybe…” he paused. “I’ll tell Curt. Maybe there’s something there.”
Half an hour later, he called Emma back.
“I’m warning you, Emma, you may regret this.”
“What’s up?” Emma asked. “Did you talk to Curt?”
“I talked to Curt,” Piers replied. “He’s beside himself.”
“What?” Emma asked, her mind racing. Beside himself could mean a lot of things: angry, hopeful, sad, unhinged.
“He wants to see her,” Piers replied. “Today. Now. We leave in an hour from the Sonoma Airport on his private plane.”
“We?” Emma asked. “Do I need to call Steve?”
“Fine. Call Steve,” Piers answered. “But bet your bottom dollar you are coming. I am not directing this soap opera all by myself.”
The news about Maria Hidalgo-Muller left Steve unmoved. At the mention of the private plane, however, he went ballistic.
“That takes the prize,” he replied bitterly when Emma asked if she should go. “I spend sixteen hours from hell driving back and forth to Coachella with you eating junk food in a ten year old Subaru; while that murdering…”
“Alleged,” Emma cut in, smarting at his choice of words. She hadn’t thought their trip together was that bad.
“Alleged murdering bigot,” Steve continued, “flies there in his private plane. To determine, after almost fifty years, whether some poor Mexican girl whose life he ruined along with his son’s, has miraculously provided him with the immortality he does not deserve.”
“He hardly ruined Maria Hidalgo-Muller’s life,” Emma pointed out. “She’s head of the Department of Biology at UC Riverside. She’s a huge success.”
Her comment, Emma realized, only made things worse.
“You mean, unlike Steve Zimmer,” he shot back, “working for peanuts in some obscure rural outpost trying, unsuccessfully, to get poor people a fair shake.”
“That’s not what I meant at all, Steve,” Emma interrupted. “Blissburg is hardly a rural outpost; and, furthermore, you’re the most admirable…”
“Go!” he yelled. “Thanks to you, I’m taking my wife wine tasting today. By the way, don’t forget to enjoy the leather seats on your private jet. And the Terra chips. And the gourmet sandwiches from Pain de Lyon. At least you don’t have to worry about poisoning yourself on Micky D’s.” He hung up the phone.
Half an hour later, Emma was sitting in the lounge of the private plane terminal at the Sonoma Airport sipping a complimentary bottle of San Pellegrino and waiting for Piers.
I could get to like this, she mused. No security line. No stress. Piped in Vivaldi.
The stress levels rose considerably, however, a few minutes later when Piers, Curt, his housekeeper, and an armed Sonoma County police officer walked into the waiting room.
Emma glanced questioningly from Piers to the policeman.
“Condition of bail for travel in state,” Piers shrugged. Then he introduced everyone.
Of course Emma recognized Curt. He had always reminded her of John Wayne. Tall. Confident. All-American. But his features were more cartoonish. His blue eyes, under a wide forehead and a full head of white hair, were large and set wider apart. His nose more like a ski jump than Roman. His mouth, too, was bigger than Wayne’s. So he almost looked goofy when he tried, unsuccessfully, to smile. His flinty eyes too full of hate and hurt.
“Curt, I’d like you to meet Emma Corsi,” Piers said. “She’s the one who located Maria Hidalgo after all these years.”
“Glad to meet you,” Curt stuck out his hand mechanically.
After she shook it, he crossed both arms across his chest defensively. Then, as though the effort had been too much, the old man limped to one of the waiting room chairs and sat down with a wheezy gasp.
The housekeeper nodded at Emma. Then she hooked Curt up to a portable oxygen machine.
Soon they were ushered from the waiting room out to the tarmac where they met their pilots and boarded the small plane.
The minute she stepped into the cabin, Emma understood Steve’s harangue. She settled back into one of the incredibly comfortable seats. A bottle of water sat on a table in front of her, along with a small bag of Terra chips to munch on during the flight. One of the pilots described their route. The skies were clear. The whole flight was expected to last a little over an hour. Seconds later, they were on their way.
I could get used to this, Emma reminded herself again.
Half way through the flight, the pilot announced there were sandwiches and salads, if anyone wanted lunch. Piers passed them around in a wicker basket along with more drinks. Emma noticed that the sandwich she chose – a prosciutto with Brie and fig on a walnut baguette – was indeed from Pain de Lyon, a chic Sonoma bakery. How did Steve know? she couldn’t help wondering. Does he lead a secret life?
No one spoke, except for Piers who leaned over while passing out lunch to whisper in Emma’s ear. The fingerprints on the murder weapon had tested negative for Curt’s nephew. They were back at square one.
Everyone was intent on finishing lunch before the airplane began its descent on the relatively short flight to the Ontario, California airport. Before Emma knew it, Piers had collected the trash. The pilot announced that they’d be landing in fifteen minutes.
It was later, seated across from Emma in the limousine driving to UC Riverside, that Curt Randall addressed her again.
“Tell me,” he leaned forward in his seat and stated in an even, low voice. “What did she say to you on the phone? What were her exact words?”
Emma closed her eyes for a few seconds. Trying to replay the brief, emotionally charged conversation in her head.
“When I asked her about her son,” Emma finally replied, “her only words were, ‘How dare you?’ Then she hung up the phone.”
Curt’s face composed itself into a far off expression that, at first, Emma was at a loss to name. Till she realized she’d seen it before. On Julie’s face staring at Santa Claus. Or on a batter’s the split second he saw his ball arcing towards the outfield.
The expression was hope. Pure, shameless, desperate hope. She wondered if Steve was right after all. Perhaps she should have let sleeping dogs lie.
Curt nodded slowly. “I want to know everything she said,” he explained.
Emma told him everything she remembered, except for her own initial lie about the reason for the call. “Finally,” she concluded, “I told her I was calling about,” she hesitated even mentioning the name, “about Cory, your son.”
“Cory,” the old man had clasped his hands together under his chin, like he was saying a prayer. “Yes. About Cory. What did she say?”
“She said she knew him,” Emma replied. “She asked what I wanted to know.” Emma shrugged. “I answered that I was interested in her son. That’s when she hung up.”
“What did she say when you called to set up the interview?” Emma asked turning to Piers.
Piers shook his head. “We didn’t call her. We figured she wouldn’t talk to us, so what was the point? Curt decided to fly down here and confront her instead.”
Confront her! Emma thought. After all these years, with what?
It was a quarter past 1:00 p.m. when Emma, Piers, Curt, his housekeeper and the Sonoma County police officer finally arrived at the Department of Biology on the campus of UC Riverside. The office was staffed by an administrative assistant. It served as a kind of information clearing house. It was furnished with a few chairs, and tables covered with pamphlets and brochures.
The assistant looked up from her desk, obviously perplexed when the parade of unlikely visitors entered the small room.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Piers started to take the lead, but before he could say anything Curt Randall replied. “We’re here to talk to Maria. Maria Hidalgo,” he added.
“Professor Hidalgo-Muller?” the woman answered.
“That’s right,” Curt nodded. Nobody smiled.
“May I ask who wishes to see her?” the assistant replied.
Curt had folded his arms across his chest again. He was breathing hard. His housekeeper offered him some oxygen, but he waved her away with an irritated swat of his hand.
“Tell her Curt Randall wants to talk to her,” Curt said.
Emma glanced around the room and then at Piers, wondering why he didn’t intervene. It’s the Department of Biology, for goodness sakes, not Dodge City, she told herself.
The assistant, she realized, was staring at them. She frowned. “I’m afraid Professor Hidalgo-Muller is still at lunch,” she said. “Curt Randall, I think you said. Is that with a ‘C’ or a ‘K’?” she asked.
“With a ‘C’,” Randall replied.
“I’ll tell her you called on her,” the assistant said. “If you give me your phone number, she’ll get back to you.”
Curt shook his head. “We’ll wait.”
Then he motioned to Emma and to his housekeeper to take two of the three visitors’ chairs. He sat down in the other. Piers leaned against one of the tables and pretended to peruse a pamphlet labeled “Careers in Biology.” The police officer stood by the door.
In the next few minutes, two or three student types entered the room. Looking around, they quickly beat a retreat out the door. Finally, after half an hour of waiting, the door to the office opened and a woman whom Emma recognized entered the office. It was Maria Hidalgo-Muller. She was even lovelier in person than she was in her picture. With her long face and dark sad eyes, she reminded Emma of a cross between a Latin Virgin Mary and Joan Baez.
She glanced at the assistant. “Sorry I took so long. Have there been any calls?”
The assistant squinted back at her apologetically.
Suddenly Maria Hidalgo glanced around the room. Then her eyes landed on Curt Randall. They hardened and her body went stiff.
She stared at him for almost a full minute before shaking her head. “You sad old man,” she finally said between clenched teeth, “OK,” she shrugged disdainfully, motioning towards an office behind the assistant’s desk. “What do you want?”
With that Curt Randall stood up and moved slowly towards the door, followed by Piers motioning to Emma to come too. The housekeeper remained seated.
The police officer also strode forward from his post. But Maria waved him away. “Please,” she said. “What harm do you really think this pathetic old man is going to do that he hasn’t already done?”
With that, she followed the three of them into her office. Emma, she dismissed immediately with a wave of her hand. “You must be the one who called. The Corsi woman!”
Emma n
odded.
“Who are you?” she turned to Piers. “Oh, of course,” she muttered before he could answer. “You’re probably the lawyer. There always has to be a lawyer these days.”
Piers nodded. “Yes. My name is Larkin, Piers Larkin,” he replied.
Maria sat down behind her desk. It was large, Emma noted, and covered with folders. Emma also noticed a couple of photographs on a credenza behind the desk where two computers screens sat side-by-side. One of the photographs was of a smiling man in his sixties. Presumably Mr. Muller. The other of a younger man and a girl. The young man looked exactly like Maria.
She motioned them to sit down on a couch and one of three chairs. Curt and Piers took the couch. From the chair, Emma watched the three other occupants of the room.
“So, Mr. Randall, what do you want?” Maria repeated the questioned she’d asked in the other room.
The old man wasted no time. “I want to know what happened all those years ago. I want to know about your son.”
Maria quickly made it clear that she was in no hurry to satisfy the old man’s curiosity. She answered the questions in the order they were asked.
“You want to know what happened all those years ago,” she repeated. “But your son, Cory, told you, right? Before he left for Viet Nam and broke both our hearts. You know what happened, Mr. Randall. Cory and I were young and we fell in love, working side by side in the onion fields. Probably too young, as you explained. But that wasn’t really the problem, was it Mr. Randall? The problem was something else. The problem was who I am.”
“Who you were,” Curt whispered.
“Who I still am,” Maria replied. “Despite all this,” she gestured around room. “Despite all I’ve ‘accomplished’ as they say, I’m still the same. Maria Hidalgo. The Latina who cut the onions on your farm.”
Emma watched Curt squint at her, staring around the room shaking his head.
Still, Maria did not answer the old man’s second question. “And since you couldn’t stand the thought of your son marrying, procreating with such, such filth – that’s the word you used when you visited my parents – you sent him away…”
