Looking for Yesterday

by Marcia Muller

  “I needed normalcy. Just us, and nothing ugly between us.”

  “Understand.” He put his arms around me and we lay for a while in the kind of peace we both craved.

  After a while I said, “I need your help.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “What d’you know about gun control?”

  “A fair amount, but first I need some coffee.”

  “I set the pot on the timer last night. It’s ready.”

  “I’ll fetch it.” He got out of bed, stretched, and went up the spiral staircase. I smiled, admiring the lines of his lean body.

  A minute later he returned with two mugs, set them on the bedside tables, and crawled back in next to me, propping himself on his pillows.

  “Okay—gun control,” he said. “It’s a difficult issue. You know I wouldn’t willingly part company with my guns because of the kind of work I do, and also because I’ve had firearms since I was old enough to shoot. I enjoy and respect them. There’ve been times in my life when a gun made a difference. That ambush in the jungle clearing with the Cambodians. Crossing the Mexican border—if you hadn’t shot that coyote who was after me, I’d be dead.”

  “But…?”

  “Firearms aren’t for everybody. Some people are careless with them, or just don’t understand how to use them. Assault rifles are particularly dangerous. Who needs that kind of firepower outside a battle zone?”

  “But how do you legally decide who should own a weapon and who shouldn’t?”

  “Congress has been debating that since 1934, when the first gun control measure was enacted. Constitutionality of withholding guns from what they call ‘high-risk’ individuals—mainly juveniles and convicted criminals—is another question. Then there’s the problem of how to keep guns off the black market.”

  “Big problem,” I said, thinking of a couple of pawnbrokers I knew who, for the right price, would procure and sell any kind of weapon to any individual who had ready cash. “The ATF can’t seem to figure that one out. Neither can anybody else, for that matter.”

  “Right. Political divisiveness and the huge power of the NRA have pretty much created a stalemate. It all goes back to guns being made so damn attractive to the general public, especially to the young and impressionable. I blame TV and the movies for that. There’s so much violence depicted that somehow it doesn’t seem real. But you face down a fellow human being with a gun in your hand, it’s as real as it gets. Well, I don’t have to tell you that, McCone. It’s a complicated world, and I’ve long ago given up on finding the answers.”

  I considered that for a moment. I’d given up on finding the answers to the big questions too. But the small ones—well, that was another story.

  10:30 a.m.

  I’d called the trauma center at SF General and been told by the nurse who answered—Amanda Lui, one of those who had attended me when I was in a locked-in state—that Caro had been put into a medically induced coma. She would rest peacefully until her concussion and head wounds could heal. Had her family been notified? I asked. She and others had tried, the nurse said, but no relative was available. I hung up and checked the phone book: Caro’s brother, Rob Warrick, was listed at an address on Potrero Hill, not all that far from the hospital.

  Rob’s answering machine had one of those terse, slightly snotty messages: “You know what to do.” I waited for the tone, but a man’s voice came on. He sounded out of breath.

  As it turned out, he didn’t know what had happened to Caro, so I explained.

  For someone estranged from his sister, he became extremely agitated. “Oh shit! Nobody told me. My fault: I’ve been in and out and just got back from running. I haven’t even checked my messages. You say she’s in a coma?”

  “Medically induced.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s to make her rest until her injuries begin healing.”

  “How serious are they?”

  “Pretty serious. But I think you should go over there, talk with her doctor.”

  “Of course. Right away. Oh, Caro… Is she going to die?”

  “I don’t know. How about you and I get together for coffee afterward?” I asked. “I know a good place in the neighborhood.”

  11:25 a.m.

  Mary Lou’s Grounds for Divorce had been a Potrero Hill hangout for as long as I could remember, patronized by both medical personnel and local residents. It was said that Mary Lou Gould, a big, flamboyant redhead, had bought the place with the large cash settlement from her cheating doctor husband, but when asked about it she’d merely smile and put her finger to her lips. It was a small place with tables on the sidewalk, and I was lucky to snag one, this being one of those rare fine, warm January days that we sometimes enjoy in the city.

  Rob Warrick—tall, blond, with the muscular definition of an athlete—was wearing shorts and a maroon T-shirt with blue stripes down the arms. His handsome face was pulled taut by worry lines as he sat down at my table and ordered a latte.

  “I’ve just been to the hospital,” he said. “They let me look in on Caro. God, she’s so pale and still.”

  “Well, they did induce a coma—”

  “Don’t sugarcoat the situation. You know it’s grim for her, and so do I. I talked with both the nurse and the doctor.” He ran his hand through his longish hair. “Jesus, who would do a thing like that to her?”

  “I thought you might have some idea.”

  “No. Oh, there are a lot of people who don’t like her, because of her gun control stance or because they think her acquittal of Amelia’s murder was a miscarriage of justice. But I doubt any of them are violent.”

  “You’re in touch with Caro, then?”

  “Of course. We’re not close—Caro doesn’t get close to anyone any more—but we see each other every few weeks.”

  “What about your other sister?”

  “Patty? They got together occasionally. Why do you ask?”

  “Caro told me she was estranged from her entire family.”

  Rob frowned. “Not from Patty and me. Our parents, yes. But neither of us sees them either.” Something in his tone warned me against asking about the breakdown of relationships.

  “Are there any rules?” Caro had asked when she hired me.

  “Only one: you tell me the truth at all times. If I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll terminate the investigation—and you’ll forfeit the unused portion of the retainer.”

  “Agreed.”

  My client had lied to me about being estranged from her family, as well as her alleged seizures. Should I allow her one more chance?

  I asked Rob, “Do you know about the book on her case that Caro’s coauthoring?”

  “Yeah. I advised her against it. Bury the past, I said. But this Greta Goldstein got her really hyped up about setting the record straight in print. I wasn’t at all surprised when Jill Starkey tried to beat them to the punch.”

  “You know Starkey?”

  “I met her when she was covering Caro’s trial. A real bitch, but I don’t think she’d physically harm anyone. Caro didn’t get that hit off of her, either, and she hasn’t mentioned her since.”

  “What do you remember about Amelia Bettencourt’s death?” I asked Rob.

  “Very little. I was living in Manhattan then; my parents sent me east for prep school and then college and business school at Columbia.” He added bitterly, “Getting me away from the scene of my crime.”

  “The accident with your little sister.”

  “That’s a tactful way of phrasing it. I shot and killed Marissa. I was fooling around with my dad’s gun and I pointed it at her, thinking it wasn’t loaded. It went off—hair-trigger mechanism. I remember it every day, watching the life drain out of her. I tried to stop the blood with my shirt, but it was too late. I was such a fool.”

  “You were only a kid.”

  “But I knew enough about guns to check to see if it was loaded.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself
.”

  “Someone has to be. My parents acted as if it had never happened at all. They shipped the reminder of her—me—off to school and never mentioned her again.”

  “And Caro?”

  “She turned her anger against our dad. And got heavily into gun control.”

  “What’s your stance on the issue?”

  “After what I did, I think guns should be wiped off the face of the earth. Unfortunately, that isn’t going to happen.”

  “What about Patty?”

  “Patty? She’s just sad. Sadder now that Caro’s in the hospital. Patty’s the saddest person I know. It’s clinical depression, going back to childhood. I’ve tried to help her, persuaded her to get meds, but half the time she forgets to take them.”

  “Any chance she’d speak with me?”

  “I can check and see.”

  Rob phoned Patty, who lived in the Rock Ridge district of Oakland. After a couple of minutes during which he kept saying, “Patty, don’t cry,” she told him she’d see me. She’d be in the garden; I could come over anytime.

  2:10 p.m.

  I’d recently read a magazine article about edible front yards—meaning you turned them into vegetable gardens, rather than planting a lawn or flowers. Patty Warrick apparently subscribed to the theory. Behind a low redwood fence, her yard was upturned in furrows, waiting to be planted. A few winter vegetables—brussels sprouts, chard, kale—thrived.

  Patty, a large woman with long blond curls cascading from under a floppy-brimmed straw hat, was kneeling in the unplanted section pulling weeds. When she saw me she stood, her jeans smeared with mud.

  “Welcome to my little acre,” she called.

  I stepped through the gate in the fence and surveyed Caro’s sister. In spite of the cheerful greeting, I detected the flat toneless quality of the clinically depressed. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot from crying. Wiping her hands on her jeans, Patty motioned me toward a deck that overlooked a side yard and what must have been an orchard, and we sat there on comfortable cushioned furniture.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Coffee, a soft drink, some wine?”

  “No, thank you. I’m good. What kind of trees are those?”

  “Apple, pear, and plum. I tried cherry, but they don’t do well in this climate.”

  “You’re quite a gardener.”

  “A certified Master Gardener, with my own landscaping company. I love seeing things grow and thrive. But you’re here to talk about my sister.” Her voice grew even flatter. “I’ve been calling the hospital all day, but there’s been no change.”

  I got straight to the point of my visit. “Caro told me you and Rob were estranged from her.”

  “Not so. She came to dinner here only a week ago.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Because that’s what she is—a liar. She can’t help it. It’s some sort of psychological condition.”

  “Related to the seizures she claims she had?”

  “She’s never had a seizure in her life, unless she wanted something. That’s just the way Caro is. And neither Rob nor I is much of a prize, either. I blame it on our parents.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “They’re in denial, can’t admit even to themselves that any of their children could be less than perfect. Their three children, mind you. To them, our little sister Marissa never existed. It’s the only way they know how to cope with the accident. They travel around the world, never stay in one place very long. Pure escapism.”

  “Very differently from how Caro copes.”

  “Yes, and her way is a whole lot more sensible than my parents’ denial or Rob’s guilt or my grief. At least Caro wants to take positive steps: she went into high gear after the Gabrielle Giffords assassination attempt in Arizona, did some speaking engagements, but people kept raising the issue of the Bettencourt case. She withdrew and hasn’t been active since.” She looked pensive. “I used to be an activist for lesbian causes. Then, around the time of Caro’s trial, everything inside me went flat. I just couldn’t muster the energy.…”

  “That’s natural after such an ordeal. What do you remember of the Bettencourt murder?”

  Her gaze wavered and became unfocused. She might have been seeing either the orchard or some uncharted territory inside herself. After a few moments she said, “I remember Amelia; she and Caro were best friends. Jake Green I didn’t like so much.”

  “What about Ned Springer?”

  “Caro’s attorney? He’s all right. I’ve known him forever, since we were kids in the Marina.”

  “Tell me about Amelia. What was she like?”

  “Pretty. Funny. Smart. She could be selfish at times, like Caro. She wanted what she wanted, and she made sure she got it. Especially men. Still, you couldn’t dislike her on account of that. She charmed everybody.”

  “Including Jake Green, her best friend’s lover.”

  “Especially him. He and Amelia were a good match; he was all about getting what he wanted too.” Patty’s lips tightened. “The first time Caro brought Jake to visit me—I was living in the Lake Merritt area then—I could see him sizing up everything in my house, putting a monetary value on it. From a few things my parents said, he did the same at their place. But then Caro introduced him to Amelia, a more lucrative catch, and he dumped Caro flat.”

  “Let’s go back to the night Amelia was murdered. What do you remember?”

  “I was at Caro’s apartment in Cow Hollow. It was a tiny studio, very expensive, but she’d rented it to get away from Mom and Dad. She’d invited me for the weekend—a sisters’ getaway—but then she got this phone call and said she had to go out. No explanation, nothing.”

  “When was that?”

  “After we had dinner, around seven thirty. She came in sometime in the early morning and crawled into bed, drunk. I was pissed with her because it was supposed to be our night together.”

  “Did she give you an explanation then?”

  “There wasn’t time. The police came a few hours later and arrested her. I called Ned Springer and he represented her at the bail hearing the next day, but the judge ordered her held because she was a flight risk.”

  “And she never told you where she went or what she did?”

  “Only what she testified to at her trial.”

  There was no way to phrase my next question tactfully, so I decided to be blunt. “In your opinion, could Caro have murdered Amelia?”

  Patty didn’t take offense. “Actually,” she said, “I’ve always thought she did.”

  “Why?”

  “No especial reason. Just a feeling. When she got into bed that night, she wasn’t only drunk, but scared. The fear coming off her was as strong as the smell of alcohol.”

  3:30 p.m.

  After I left Patty’s I called the hospital for an update on Caro’s condition. Still no change. Then I went looking for Jake Green.

  According to the background information I had, Green had quit the stock brokerage and bought a travel agency south of the city in San Bruno. I called my own travel agent, Toni Alexander, and asked her if she knew of him.

  “That little weasel?” she responded. “He tried to put the moves on me at the last American Society of Travel Agents convention.”

  “I take it you don’t have a high opinion of him.”

  “It’s not because he made a pass. I’m as open to that as any single gal. But he’s just…ugh!” I could picture her shuddering.

  “How so?”

  “He’s conniving. Petty crimes like selling for inflated prices the promotional flight coupons the airlines give out to those of us in the industry. Stolen tickets, too, when he can get his hands on them. And it doesn’t help that he has eyes like a ferret.”

  I’d never gotten close enough to a ferret to look it in the eye, but I could imagine.

  “Are you aware that Green was involved in a high-​profile murder case three years ago?” I asked.

  “Am I aware? He told
me about it within three minutes of meeting me at an ASTA cocktail party here in the city. He was still ‘jazzed’ about it, he said.”

  “He give you any of the details?”

  “No. I told him I’d heard about the case and escaped from his company—not very graciously.”

  “Good move.”

  “Not to change the subject, Shar,” she said, changing the subject, “but have you and Hy talked any more about that trip to Tahiti?”

  “We’re thinking of making it a stopover on the way to New Zealand.”

  “I could send you some information—”

  “I’ve already looked at stuff on the Internet.”

  “Shar, you’re not really thinking of booking online?”

  I had been, but I knew I wouldn’t. Toni had done me too many favors over the years.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “you’ll be hearing from me about making arrangements.”

  4:32 p.m.

  More than two years earlier a Pacific Gas and Electric pipeline had ruptured down the Peninsula in San Bruno, creating a deafening roar that could be heard for many miles and a huge fireball that destroyed dozens of homes and killed several people. The commercial part of the city, where I was headed, had been spared, but grief, anger, lawsuits, and the eventual retirement of the utility’s CEO followed. The disaster had made Bay Area residents very wary, and most of us checked carefully at the slightest whiff of natural gas.

  All World Travel was located in a nondescript beige stucco building fronting an old shopping center on El Camino Real, the city’s main drag. The small storefront was cramped, with two visitors’ chairs and a table covered in brochures. Faded posters of exotic lands adorned the walls.

  A young woman with long stringy hair who looked as if she’d like to be somewhere else was paging through a file at the reception desk.

  Mr. Green, she said, wasn’t in. If I wanted I could find him three doors down at the Reading Room.

  “Reading Room?” I asked.

  “It’s a bar, his office away from the office.” She snapped her gum for emphasis.

  Classy operation.

  You couldn’t have read anything in the Reading Room. Its interior glowed a strange orange, broken only by the flickering of a big-screen TV. A hockey game was on, but the picture was so blurred I couldn’t tell who was playing. At the bar a lone man hunched over a mug of dark beer. His hair was brown, and he had a perfectly round bald place on the top of his head.