by Joanne Pence
She sat down to ponder what to do next.
She had learned a lot about Eric and Natalie Fleming’s murder reading the Chronicle, but little about the two of them as people—little about what made them ‘tick’ so to speak.
If she understood them better, maybe then she could figure out why they died. Whether the two were “stuck” here as her mother suggested, or not, Angie wanted to know what had happened to them. Why had two young people with so much to live for had their lives taken away so horribly? She remembered their pictures, so alive, so vibrant. For them to have died that way was wrong, and terribly sad.
The two had died thirty years ago, but their friends and possibly others in their families were most likely still alive. For all she knew, they had brothers and sisters who could shed light on them. Even the former homicide inspectors on the case might be available to talk with, although the less she involved Paavo or Homicide, the happier she would be.
Angie was a woman on a mission as she went to City Hall and got copies of Natalie and Eric’s death records. With the information on them, she went to genealogy programs on the internet and began to search for family members so she could talk to them and find out what, if anything, went on in Eric and Natalie’s lives that might have made them a killer’s target.
She knew that sometimes when tragedy first strikes, people are too shocked, too hurt, to think clearly. But the passage of time can help the mind make connections that were lost in the emotion of the moment.
Eric’s parents, Benjamin and Irene Fleming, lived in San Rafael, just north of San Francisco. She telephoned and was surprised when Irene answered. She took a deep breath. No way could she tell a mother that some people suspected her son haunted his former abode. Instead, she came up with a story of being a journalist and writing a magazine article on unsolved murders in San Francisco, and wondered if the Flemings would talk to her.
Both were available at six o’clock that very evening.
Angie drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and arrived right on time.
“I’m surprised anyone is interested in Eric’s death this many years later,” Ben said. He and his wife were well into their 80’s and still living in the same house as they did at the time of Eric’s murder.
Angie was prepared for this. “I know that for many people, finding out why a tragedy happened and the person responsible helps bring closure. I’m hoping that you feel that way and would be willing to help me out.”
Irene perched on the edge of the sofa. She found a Kleenex in her pocket and held it scrunched up in her hand. “I often thought my husband and I were the only people in the whole world who remembered Eric, or cared about what really happened to him. Many seem to believe he committed suicide. He would never do such a thing. Someone murdered him; he and Natalie both. I’m glad you’re looking into the case. It might help.”
“I hope so,” Angie said. “I’m sure the police asked this question time and again, but can you tell me anything about him the days before his death? Was he happy with his wife? Did he ever say anyone scared him or threatened him?”
“He seemed happy and devoted to Natalie,” Irene said. “And never seemed afraid of anyone.”
“Irene?” Ben said as he looked at her long and hard. Finally, she gave a reluctant nod. “There was one thing we should mention,” he said softly to Angie. “It didn’t come out at the time because we didn’t think it important and it would only cast a cloud over his life, but he had a lot of women around him. A lot of women. He was very good looking, and had money.” Ben shrugged. “It was to be expected, I suppose.”
“I see,” Angie said, suddenly uncomfortable over the way this nice couple opened up to her. “And you think that might have contributed to his death?”
“Not really, but we thought someone who might be able to use the information should know about it.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling even guiltier now. She decided to end this sham of a conversation. “Tell me, was Eric an only child?”
“No, we have a son who’s one year older than Eric, and a daughter who’s eight years younger.”
“Would it be possible for me to talk with your son?”
“Certainly, but I have no idea what he could tell you that we can’t.”
Angie gently said, “I have four sisters, and I must admit that we don’t tell our parents everything.”
Irene wrote down her oldest son’s name and address. “Here you go.”
Bill Fleming, Eric’s older brother, lived in Vacaville. Since Angie was already in the north bay, she asked Irene to phone and see if Bill was home and willing to speak to her. He was.
“Thank you for looking into this for us,” Irene said to Angie after she hung up the phone. “I know Eric didn’t kill his wife or himself. People who say that simply didn’t know him.”
“I believe he’s innocent as well,” Angie said. She was about to step out the door when a question came to mind. She nearly dismissed it, but then decided to ask. “I’ve read that Natalie had a dog who was very devoted to her. Do you know what kind of a dog it was?”
“Oh, yes,” Irene said with a small smile. “I remember him. He was a sweet little thing. All the neighbors took care of him until he died of old age. His name was Jock. He was a West Highland Terrier, and white as snow.”
Angie felt a cold chill ripple down her back as she walked out of the house.
o0o
Angie drove Highway 37 to Bill Fleming’s home, arriving about an hour later. Bill didn’t have his brother’s good looks, or if he once had them, they had long dissolved into a mostly bald pate, large, round stomach, and weak eyes covered by thick tortoise shell glasses.
“Eric…he was the golden boy,” Bill said. He and Angie sat in his living room. “Most of the time, people say, it’s the eldest son that gets all the attention. In olden times, the eldest was the heir apparent, and younger sons didn’t much matter. That wasn’t the case at our house.
“Ironically, things only got worse after Eric died. From that point on, no one could ever live up to him. Sometimes I thought my parents wished I had been the one who died instead of Eric, but eventually I realized that wasn’t the case. They put him on a pedestal precisely because he was dead. He couldn’t disappoint them any longer, but remained frozen in time and was, to them, perfect.”
“Wow, you sound as if he wasn’t the ideal son they thought him to be,” Angie said.
Bill’s mouth crumpled with distaste. “Maybe I’m being too harsh, but I got pretty sick of him over the years. I didn’t do so bad in my life! I’ve retired from a good job, I’ve got a wife, two kids, seven—”
“Maybe you can tell me more about Eric,” Angie suggested. When she saw the hurt look on Bill’s face, she knew what the problem was. No one was interested in him. And neither was she.
“Fine, then,” he said angrily. “You want to know about Prince Eric, I’ll tell you. He threw away his money, drank too much, did pot, even LSD for a time. After he started to make a lot of money on those stupid, nerdy, Silicon Valley start-ups, he turned to cocaine. That burned through his money like nobody’s business.”
“I see,” Angie was shocked. She hadn’t expected that. “Does that mean his marriage wasn’t as perfect as everyone liked to say?”
Bill squeezed his eyes shut as if he was struggling with his answer, then he gave a shake of the head and looked at her. “He was a charmer, our Eric, but I think he really did love his wife. I can’t see him shooting her. And definitely not shooting himself. Come to think of it, none of this is particularly helpful to you. He was clean by the time he died, I’m sure. Anyway, just thought I’d mention it.”
“Thank you,” she said. “There’s one other thing I wonder about. Your brother and his wife were both wealthy, so I’m surprised to learn he lived in a rental. Do you have any idea what was going on there?”
“That’s easy. They bought some land near Carmel, on the water, and were having a home built. It was going to
be a beautiful place, over 5000 square feet. They died before it was finished.”
“How terrible,” Angie said. Somehow, the thought of newlyweds trying to find a place to live, touched something deep inside her.
“Yes, it was. Eric liked cars and women. Not until he met Natalie did he settle down. He wasn’t a bad person, just wild when he was young and single. I can say that now; now that over thirty years have passed.”
“Thank you,” Angie said, and gladly left the bitterness of that house.
o0o
Back in Homicide, Paavo told Yosh all he’d found out from Greenburg.
“There’s something about these twins,” Paavo murmured, as he studied both pictures on the murder board. “I don’t know what it is, but they bother me.”
“I know one thing,” Yosh said, “paying someone $300,000 to obliterate your twin’s name from government records shows a degree of hatred that’s stunning.”
“At the same time, the two obviously spent time together,” Paavo said. “Gaia even cut her hair to look like her sister’s.”
“Weird. And we’ve found no close friends, and no social activities beyond the one person she apparently loved. Who lives like that?”
Paavo grimaced. It was hitting more than a little close to home. “She supposedly had a couple of cats, but I saw no sign of them,” Paavo said. The irony that he, too, had a cat wasn’t lost on him.
“I think I did see a payment to a veterinarian on one of her credit card bills,” Yosh said. “I could find it and check if she had cats, and if so, what happened to them—although I don’t know that it would matter to the case.”
“If they were healthy and with her, where are they now? We should find out,” Paavo said, as he focused on the case again. “Although her co-workers seemed to scarcely know her, all remarked at how upset she was, starting a few weeks ago. We need to figure out what happened then.”
“The bartender that Bedford confided in said the same thing. Two weeks earlier, Bedford was upset,” Yosh said.
“We’ve got to find out—”
“Tomorrow!” Yosh insisted, standing up and putting on his jacket. “Let’s call it a day.”
“Sounds good,” Paavo said, grabbing his jacket as well. “Say, are you free tonight, by any chance?”
“What, is Angie giving you some time off?” Yosh asked with a chuckle.
“Something like that,” Paavo said.
“Lucky you. I’ve got to get home. The wife will remove my thick head from the rest of my very ample body if I don’t go with her to a parent-teacher conference tonight for our youngest. He’s a good kid, but he likes to act up in class, and the wife’s worried about how bad the teacher’s report will be.”
So much for social activities, Paavo thought. “Good luck tonight!”
As Yosh walked away, Paavo felt a cold chill down his back. Would he have to face teachers talking about his kids some day? He couldn’t imagine being a father. Maybe that was because he’d never known one. He knew nothing about trying to raise a kid, or what a father should be like. He’d probably only disappoint Angie in that, just the way he disappointed her with her wedding plans.
His father figure was Aulis, who was already a fairly old man when Paavo and his sister Jessica moved in with him. Aulis gave him love and support, especially after Jessica died. But Aulis didn’t have a clue what Paavo did when he was a teenager, or the types of kids he ran around with. His life could have turned out a whole lot different than it had if he hadn’t joined the army. That’s what saved him.
Saved him?
Sometimes he wondered. If he had kept running with the gangs he’d gotten mixed up with in high school, at least he’d have friends. At least he’d have a best man.
Now, he had no one but co-workers…and Angie.
At times like this he wondered, was it enough?
Chapter 21
ANGIE SAT ALONE at a table by the front window of Wings of an Angel, the restaurant owned by three ex-cons who had become friends, Vinnie Freiman, Bruce Pagozzi, and Earl White. She went there for lunch, a plate of spaghetti in front of her, but she morosely picked at it.
“How you doin’, Angie?” Vinnie said. He was short, stocky, in his sixties, and generally considered the brains of the operation.
“Not so good,” she said.
He nodded. “Yeah, Earl said you was lookin’ kinda glum. Anything you wanna talk about? Ol’ Vinnie’s here for you, you know?”
“I know, Vinnie. I appreciate it. Have a seat, please.” She gestured towards the empty chair at her table. He sat. “My friends think I’m crazy, and they may be right.”
“Miss Angie, we all know you always been a little wacky, but since when’s that a problem? What’s goin’ on?” He picked up a piece of French bread from the basket, tore off a morsel and plopped it in his mouth.
“I found a house, a beautiful house, in the Sea Cliff part of the city. Paavo likes it, I love it, we can afford it. But there’s something odd in its past, and now Connie and Maria think the place is haunted!”
“Come on, now, Miss Angie, you don’t believe in no ghosts. What do the people say who’s livin’ in it now? Are they afraid of these ghosts?”
“Nobody lives in it. No one has for thirty years.” She took a sip of her pinot noir. “The owner wouldn’t sell, and now her daughter is trying to sell it.”
“The owner’s dead, is she? Is she the ghost?”
“I don’t think she is dead, just old. And she’s not the ghost. Everyone suspects the ghosts are tenants who died near the house in a murder-suicide over thirty years ago.”
“Forget the tenants, they’s done for,” Vinnie said. “You gotta focus on the living. Every time I think I saw a ghost, it was somebody playin’ tricks, somebody who wanted to scare the crap outta me. Pardon my French. Why didn’t the owner wanna sell the place if no one was livin’ there? You gotta be nuts to sit on land that’s a gold mine. That ain’t makin’ no sense.”
“Oh, my God, you’re right! You’re a genius!” Angie stood, leaned across the table and kissed him. “I’ve been concentrating on the wrong people! Somebody wanted that house to stay empty, and kept it empty for thirty years! I’ll bet whoever it was, still wants no one to live there!”
Vinnie blushed from head to toe at her kiss, a big smile on his face. “You keep us posted on this house business, Miss Angie,” Vinnie said. “And now, what’s happenin’ with your weddin’ plans?”
Angie was sure Vinnie meant well asking about her wedding, but that, too, wasn’t the happiest of subjects for her, although not half as unhappy as ghosts. She soon finished her lunch, and left Wings of an Angel in a much better frame of mind than when she entered. Her three friends always had that effect on her, and she loved them dearly.
Time to scour the internet once more, she thought. How had anyone survived without it?
As she drove, Angie mentally went through the information she already had. Both Flemings were shot to death. Their house showed no break in, which meant they most likely knew their murderer.
The case was considered a murder-suicide only because Eric was found holding a gun and there were no viable suspects. The gunpowder residue proved inconclusive.
The police learned that the Flemings liked to throw parties, which meant many people’s DNA would have been all over the house. Paavo hadn’t mentioned to her anything about DNA tests, or if they were even available back then. He did say that the police conducted many interviews with people who knew the couple or had worked with Eric, but they could find no motive.
A car honked at her. In the rearview mirror, Angie saw a matronly driver indicating that Angie was “number one.”
When had that light turned green?
She drove on. Basically, all speculation was based on fact that no one had any reason to kill the couple, and fell back on domestic violence as the reason for their deaths.
Yet, those same conclusions may have stopped the police from pursuing other motives and sus
pects.
She stomped on the brakes just in time as someone turned left in front of her. She was again number one! It wasn’t her fault…at least, she didn’t think it was. Being much more careful, she finally reached home.
She had already learned that the owner of the property at 51 Clover Lane was named Carol Steed, and that she had also been owner of the property when Eric and Natalie lived there.
Angie decided to find out more about Carol Steed and anyone else who knew the Flemings.
She then investigated the name of the owner across the street at 60 Clover Lane. She suspected whoever lived there at the time of the murders might have information for her. She was shocked to learn that Carol Steed also owned that property.
Puzzled by this, she spent quite a bit of time searching San Francisco birth, death, and marriage records on the Steed family. Eventually a picture emerged.
Carol Steed was born Carol Ramsey in 1938. She married Edward Steed in 1965. They had one daughter, Enid, born in April 1979. In October 1978, however, before Enid’s birth, Edward Steed died in a fall.
As Angie previously learned, the two Clover Lane homes were built in 1950 by Edward’s parents, Donald and Mary Steed, and after Mary’s death, Edward became owner of both houses.
She now discovered that he and Carol had been living in the smaller of the two homes, and then moved into the big Clover Lane house when it became vacant.
Angie then went back to the notes Paavo had given her from the crime scene report. Eric Fleming had moved into the big 51 Clover Street house in November, 1978, one month after Edward’s death. That must have meant Carol moved back into the smaller house. But why did she give up the bigger, more beautiful home?
Angie considered that Carol might have had only a small income, and rented out the bigger house so that she could have enough money to live on. But if she needed money, she would have rented the house out again after the Flemings were killed. No one would have moved into it immediately after the murders, but a year or two later, few people would have remembered. So money couldn’t have been the reason she gave Eric the big house to rent.
