by M. Z. Kelly
“On second thought,” Mo said. “Maybe Roma’s right where she belongs.”
Sal Walsh, from what I’d been told, had one big part in a very big film. It had something to do with gladiators and ancient Rome. Walsh had played a megalomaniacal emperor, who in recent years had so identified with the part that he’d taken to shouting out lines from the role. I was told he was also a recluse who seldom ventured from his third floor pedestal.
“This place is starting to give me the collywobbles,” Natalie said. “It’s almost as crazy as Hollywood.”
“Just think of it as old Hollywood,” I said. “Really old Hollywood. I looked over at Mo again. She was as down as I’d ever seen her. “We’ll get the girls back,” I said to her. “I’ll go by and talk to the detectives in the morning.”
Mo’s sigh sounded like a giant radiator belching steam. “You can’t help, Kate. It’s outta your jurisdiction.” She looked at Natalie. “I think we’re going to have to get involved, baby sis. We gotta save Sissy.”
Natalie clapped her hands and then did a little dance, twirling around with Bubba. “We’ll be on this like a stick of Wrigley’s gum on a shoe.”
“Sarah Crabtree’s nephew Sammy is a PI here on the island,” Mo said to her. “She told me that she’ll ask him to work the case for free if we want.”
“Who?’ I asked.
“Strutting Sarah,” Natalie explained. She must have seen my blank expression and translated. “Gaga on steroids.”
“Oh…” It suddenly sank in. Sarah Crabtree changed her outfit at least a half-dozen times a day. Depending on when you caught her she looked like everyone from Meryl Streep to an ancient prostitute. “Oh no. Not Sarah.”
“I’ll admit she’s a little different,” Mo said. “But maybe her nephew’s okay. Besides, we need all the help we can get.”
“This is a police matter,” I warned them. “You two can’t get involved. It’s not like when I work a case.” My friends had a habit of interfering in my cases, despite warnings to stay out of them, something that I’d learned to tolerate on occasion.
“We don’t got a choice but to get involved,” Mo said. I saw there were tears on her puffy cheeks. My friend seldom cried. “I’m gonna get my niece back if it’s the last thing I do.”
I huffed out a ragged breath, dragged a hand through my limp hair. “Let me talk to my lieutenant. Maybe he can make an arrangement with the locals to let me work on the case. It’s the least I can do.” As I said the words I knew it was probably a mistake but once they came out I was committed.
“You don’t know how grateful I’d be for that,” Mo said, blubbering onto my shoulder like a two hundred pound baby.
“You will die, you ignominious slime. Off to the dungeon and then off with your heads.”
It was Sal Walsh again, expounding from his upper story balcony. Morty came by. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and looked up at the ancient actor. He then looked at the three of us. “You gotta admit, the guy’s got great timing.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He’s like a damn cuckoo clock.” He puffed. “Spouts off like that at the top of every hour. I set my watch by Sal’s sermons.”
He had a point. I turned and realized Loretta Swanson had crept up behind us again like an ancient cat, or maybe a cougar. She came over to Morty’s side, gave him the flirty spider eye and farted.
I managed to get away from my friends and old Hollywood by locking myself in my room where I took a hot bath. I’d called Lieutenant Edna about working on the case with the local sheriff’s department. He said that he thought I was crazy but would see what he could do.
As I soaked my tired bones my mind drifted back to the events surrounding Jack Bautista’s death. I’d spent almost three months recovering from the sudden loss of the man I’d fallen in love with, despite our sometimes rocky relationship. Was I ready to move on from everything that had happened? I wasn’t sure.
The more I thought about things, I had to admit there was something about Buck McCade that I found intriguing. Even though I’d just met him, he seemed grounded and genuine in a way that I seldom saw in my chosen profession. After I spent a few minutes thinking about him, I came to my senses. I hardly knew McCade and here I was fantasizing about him like a school girl.
After my bath, I slipped into my jammies and got into bed, trying to put everything out of my mind. I tossed and turned for a couple of hours, unable to sleep.
I finally got up and made myself a cup of tea. I sat on my balcony that overlooked Catalina, with Bernie at my side. The night sky was beautiful with a crescent moon hung in the heavens just above the shimmering sea.
I spent the next hour finally feeling some of the day’s stress beginning to slip away. As I began to relax I also made a conscious decision to begin releasing myself from the past. What had happened was a tragedy, but I knew I could no longer dwell on it. I would never forget Jack or his death at the hands of the same man who had murdered my father, but I also knew it was time to move on. I would no longer let the demons of the past haunt me.
I knew in that moment it was time for new beginnings.
CHAPTER FOUR
Numbers.
They are everywhere, pouring over Grace Breslin like a steady rain falling from the sky. She sits in the backyard of the group home where she’s lived for the past two years as dusk settles in.
The summer breeze blowing in from the island’s harbor is warm, calm, and comforting. The leaves in the trees dance and hum, singing their praise for the passing of another summer day.
Starlings.
The birds swarm overhead through the filtered sunlight, creating dancing patterns in the evening sky. Grace sees them as numbers that swirl and move through the sky but also in her head.
Everything begins and ends with numbers. They are everywhere, all the time, moving through her mind like a rushing stream of water. She can’t stop them, even if she wanted to. But she never wants them to stop.
Grace loves numbers. She started thinking about them when she was a little girl as though her life depended upon them. She came to understand they are real and true and constant. She knows that a girl, especially someone living in a group home for unwanted children, isn’t supposed to know about these things, so she keeps quiet about it. No one knows about her secret world.
Grace has spent the last year thinking about a special set of numbers. When she asked one of her teachers about them, she was told the numbers are something called a Fibonacci sequence.
“It’s a pattern of ratios and numbers that repeats, starting with 0,1,1,2,3,5,8,13, and so on,” Mrs. Bennington had explained. “Each number in the sequence is the sum of the two previous numbers. As you go higher in the sequence, the consecutive numbers are divisible by each other.”
Grace was told that this pattern of numbers creates something called, the golden ratio. Her teacher explained that some famous painters throughout history have used the ratio to proportion their works of art.
“The same ratio is found in nature, in the arrangement of the branches on a tree, the way a fern uncurls, and the number of petals on flowers,” Mrs. Bennington had said. “Numbers are very special. They’re God’s secret language, a gift to help us understand the world.”
Grace likes the thought of God being a mathematician. All things that are beautiful in the world follow patterns of numbers and equations. She doesn’t know exactly what any of this means, but she can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like listening to the melody of a song, thinking that you might have heard the music someplace before, but can’t quite place it.
“Your social worker is here.”
Grace turns and sees that Jonah, the home’s administrator, is at the back door. The man’s furtive, nervous expression never changes. She giggles, thinking he might have been a squirrel in a previous life. He’s short and squat with a scraggly beard and dark eyes that dart back and forth.
“I’ll be right there, Mr. Parsons.”
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“See to it,” Jonah says. “Time is money.”
Before leaving the yard Grace takes in a deep breath of fresh island air. She remembers reading somewhere that each time someone takes a breath they are breathing in the same molecules that every man or woman who has ever lived has also inhaled. She imagines all the voices, both great and small, that have filled up the world now gathering inside of her in this one breath. It’s so amazing.
She moves over to the backdoor and sees that Jonah is still there, tapping a foot. “Hurry along now,” he says. “We mustn’t keep Ms. Taylor waiting.”
She smiles, nods to the squirrel, and hurries past him to the office where she always meets with the social worker.
“Hello Grace,” Melissa Taylor says, rising and greeting her at the door.
Grace takes her warm hand, noticing again there’s no ring there. She knows that Ms. Taylor wants to be married someday and have children. The social worker let it slip one day when they were talking about the future. She saw the sadness in the woman’s eyes as she told her about wanting a family, maybe in her heart knowing that she isn’t someone a lot of men are attracted to.
The social worker is probably in her mid-thirties, overweight with eyes that reminded her of a lost puppy. Maybe that’s why she became a social worker. There’s probably even a motto that she follows: Help others and help yourself at the same time. They might not be your children, but they are children, desperately in need of love.
“How are you feeling today,” Melissa Taylor begins. “Is the cold any better?”
“I’m fine,” Grace says. “It might have just been allergies. The pollen count is high at this time of year.”
Melissa nods, studying her. “You’re such a bright girl.”
“Thank-you.” Grace smiles, shifts her slender body, and looks out the window into the darkening street.
“Have you been able to get ahold of your aunt?”
Grace nods, her gaze coming back over to the social worker. “I told her my situation, that I’ll be turning eighteen and have nowhere to go.”
“What did she say?”
She sees the social worker is holding her breath, genuinely concerned about her. Grace brushes a hand through her long brown hair. Her blue eyes fix on Melissa Taylor. “She said that I’m not her responsibility. She has two children of her own, a job, and bills to pay.” Grace takes a breath, lets it out slowly. “I can’t stay with her.”
Melissa nods, probably in a practiced way. Grace wonders if they send you to social worker school where they teach you how to nod thoughtfully and appear caring, but at the same time remain detached. It’s a job, after all.
“Do you understand what this means?” the social worker asks.
“Of course. Tomorrow I’ll be eighteen and have to leave the home. I’ll be on my own.”
Another thoughtful, detached nod follows. “Is there anyone else, Grace? I know that you’re parents were divorced and your father isn’t in the picture, but maybe there’s a cousin, a friend, someone your mother knew before the…” Taylor’s words drift away and she looks down at her hands folded in her lap.
Breast cancer.
Why can’t the social worker simply say the words? Images of her dying mother flickers through her mind, the slow decline before the end came suddenly. Ten years thirty-seven days ago her mother left the earth, left her in a world that over the years would eventually become eight different group homes.
“There’s no one,” Grace says flatly. “I’m going to be on my own.”
A long breath fills the social worker’s lungs and is slowly released. Grace wonders if she has any idea about the magic those molecules she’s inhaling hold. Every minute the social worker breathes in four hundred and fifty cubic inches of air. The breath of the ages fills Melissa Taylor’s lungs. The woman simply has no idea.
A nod, professional and detached follows. “I’ll come by tomorrow. Help you pack.”
“It’s not necessary. I just have a few things. They’ll fit into a backpack.”
“I insist. It’s the…”
Grace sees the woman’s eyes misting over. Maybe there’s more to Ms. Taylor than what she learned in social worker school. She reaches over, touching the social worker’s hand. “It will be okay.”
Now the woman’s eyes are heavier, water forming on the lid below her left eye. She brushes it away, sucking in a breath, maybe the training taking over again. “I’ll come by anyway. Don’t leave until I get here, no matter what Mr. Parson says.”
Grace smiles, remembering how the administrator told her that the morning she turned eighteen he wanted her out the door. “I’ll wait for you.”
Melissa Taylor rises, moves to the door. She stops and turns back to Grace. She walks back over and hugs her. When they part, Grace now sees the tears are covering the social worker’s cheeks like raindrops on a gossamer window pane. The woman turns and rushes out the door.
When she leaves the office Grace ignores Jonah telling her that dinner is ready. She goes back to the yard where the last rays of daylight dance across her face. Eight minutes, twenty seconds. That’s how long it takes for the light to travel from the sun to the earth. Grace does the calculations. In an instant she knows there have been 3,689 sunrises since her mother’s death.
Tomorrow there will be another sunrise. But this one will be different. Tomorrow’s sunrise will christen another chapter in her life. It will be the end of Grace’s childhood.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Catalina Island Sheriff’s Department was located on Sumner Street a couple of blocks up the street from the harbor. The red-tiled building was unremarkable for a city that was remarkable for its colorful, vibrant buildings that overlooked the bay. A half-dozen police cruisers were in the parking lot as Bernie and I walked past them and entered the lobby the next morning.
“I have an appointment with Lieutenant Sloan,” I told the desk sergeant. She was in her forties, stocky and expressionless.
While she called the lieutenant, Bernie and I walked around the nearly deserted lobby. There were pictures of the island going back to the turn of the last century with a placard containing information about each photograph.
I learned that Catalina was originally inhabited by Indians before becoming part of the Spanish Empire, Mexico, and eventually the United States. When William Wrigley, Jr. bought much of the island, he developed it and eventually held spring training camp for his team, the Chicago White Sox, there in the 1920’s. During World War II, the island had served as a military camp.
One of the Wrigley heirs eventually deeded most of the island to the Catalina Island Conservancy. In recent years it had served to protect the island from further development and return much of it to its natural state.
The photographs and history of the island made me realize that, even though we were only a few miles from where I lived, we were a world away from Hollywood. But yesterday’s murder and the kidnapping of three beautiful girls also made me realize that I hadn’t left much of what happens in Hollywood very far behind. I knew bad things happen everywhere, even on an island paradise.
“Detective Sexton,” Lieutenant Sloan said, coming out from behind a glass partition and extending his hand. “Lieutenant Edna told me a great deal about you.”
I took his hand. “That’s nice…I think.”
There was no telling what Edna had said about me but at least I’d gotten this far. When I’d called the lieutenant last night he said that he personally knew Sloan and would talk to him but made no promises about me working the case. The one thing Edna did make clear to me was that my leave of absence was ending and I had to be back on duty in Hollywood in less than a week.
“Follow me to my office,” Sloan said, waving a hand.
I saw there was a scattering of support staff and deputies in the stationhouse as I followed behind him. The lieutenant was about forty with a pleasant round face and sparse brown hair. He walked with a slight limp, something not too uncommon
for cops who worked the streets for years, carrying around a twenty pound duty belt full of equipment.
As we passed a row of offices, Sloan slowed his pace and turned to me. “I took your situation up the chain and got permission for you to help us out as a professional courtesy. The timing is good for us since we just had a retirement.” He stopped in front of an office, his brown eyes fixing on me. “And I don’t have to tell you that with everything that happened yesterday the press is…” He smiled. “Up my f---ing ass as your lieutenant would say.”
I laughed, knowing that Lieutenant Edna’s vocabulary bordered on the obscene. “I’m happy to help out in any way I can.” I glanced down at my dog who was looking from me to Sloan and panting. “My partner, Bernie…can he…”
“Not a problem,” the lieutenant said, moving a hand down and stroking my big dog. “I worked canines on the mainland about ten years ago. Best years of my career.”
We moved into Sloan’s small, cluttered office where I found Buck McCade sitting across from the lieutenant’s desk reading some reports. He stood and took my hand, his blue eyes crinkling up at the corners in a way that again stirred something up inside me.
“Looks like fate keeps bringing us together,” McCade said.
I turned back to Sloan as he explained about us working together. “Buck’s partner, Ben Howard, just retired. It was a little sudden. Until there’s a replacement I’m giving you two the lead on the case, with a couple of other detectives helping out. It’s a win for us since we don’t have any full time detectives that work homicide and that’s your specialty.”
My eyes met McCade’s baby blues. There was that crinkle thing again, the full lips that were turned up. He was taller than I remembered from yesterday and wore another dark sports coat that had a western cut. Being around him gave me the impression that I’d been swept up by a tornado and landed somewhere in Texas, instead of an island.
