"I didn't."
"Right. Probably not going to say now, either."
"Nope."
"I see. But if I were to … think out loud what happened to that girl …"
"I might also think out loud that it's my guess that she turned out just fine."
* * *
The neighborhood where Nora had lived with Deedee—Gage got the address from Carl, who was nothing if not good with addresses—was a few blocks from the casino. He drove by it on the way home, hoping there might be a person or two still living there who remembered Nora, Deedee, or even Ronnie. It was like a lot of the neighborhoods on the west side of Highway 101. The houses on the bluff itself were a mixture of extravagant mini-mansions built more recently and older but usually well-kept cottages that dated back to before the price of anything with an ocean view skyrocketed. Even the cottages, Gage knew from real estate brochures that came in the mail, were worth at least half a million now. Most weren't even primary residences, but second homes and vacation rentals.
The farther east one got, and the farther from any glimpse of water, the smaller and more dilapidated the homes became. Deedee's street was only three blocks away, but it might as well have been on a different planet. Gage doubted any of them were vacation rentals—all tiny, one-story cottages, some with single-car garages that could barely fit modern cars, others with garages that had been converted to expand the houses. None had views of anything but the bigger houses to the west. No sidewalks, no trees, most of the bushes bent and twisted by years enduring the harsh winds.
The few cars parked on the street or in the driveways were at least twenty years old. The lawns were so small you could hardly lie down in them. Gage always found the juxtaposition interesting: it was one of the few places in the country, or maybe anywhere, where people who had so much lived so closely to people who had so little.
A few had been dolled up with fresh paint and fake shutters, lawns prim, flower boxes under the windows, but most were in sad shape, with rusted chain link fences and gray and flaking paint. Deedee's house was one of these, a boxy thing that had the look of a manufactured home even if it wasn't, the salmon-colored siding fading and chipped, cracks in the foundation, a children's yellow plastic playhouse in the front yard that looked like it hadn't been used in a decade.
Gage parked on the street, behind a trailer made from the back of a Ford truck, and knocked on the door. Nobody answered. He looked at the house, trying to imagine the woman who would become an international music sensation spending much of her youth here. There was nobody on the street. These were working people, most of them, so they wouldn't be. The wind was still, the sky so flawlessly blue it was hard to believe another storm was on the way. Even if he couldn't see it, he could both hear and smell the ocean; it would have been a constant presence in Nora's life.
He knocked on some doors. Mostly, nobody was home. In one, a girl that couldn't have been more than thirteen answered the door holding a baby in diapers. She said they'd only lived there two years. Gage told himself this was the baby's sister and tried to put it out of his mind. In another, a man shouted something inexplicable through the closed door about his water bill.
No red lava rock anywhere in sight. He walked two blocks. The last house on the street, one of the cheerier ones, brand-new banana-yellow aluminum siding with baby-blue awnings over the windows, was supposedly where Ronnie the waitress had lived. He wondered if they had known about their common connection in Ed Boone. Seemed hard to believe they didn't, but then, two families could live a hundred yards from each other for decades and never know of each other's existence. Still, he'd have to ask Nora if she had any recollection of Ronnie or her son. Maybe he should talk to Howie Meyer again, the intrepid insurance salesman.
It just seemed to Gage that there was something about the proximity that mattered here, something he wasn't seeing.
While he was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, an old woman opened the front door, peering at him through a gray mesh screen. She wore a pink floral dress the same color as the dye in her hair. She hunched over, a big woman with a big bust, leaning on what Gage at first thought was a cane. He immediately felt a kinship, lifting his own cane in greeting.
Then the old lady lifted her cane and he saw it wasn't a cane at all. It was a shotgun.
"You from the govn'rt?" she yelled at him.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not answering no questions!"
It seemed strange for such a cute house to be occupied by a madwoman, but then, Gage supposed even crazy people liked fresh paint now and then. "I'm not with the government, ma'am. You're not going to point that thing at me, are you?"
"Depends on how long it takes you to skedaddle! Get, now!"
Gage was about to do just that, since he had no desire, after all the many threats he'd faced in his life, to die in the driveway of a fanatical septuagenarian who'd mistaken him for a census worker, but then a man about his age appeared next to the old woman. He snatched the shotgun from her.
"Stop that nonsense, Mom," he admonished her. He wore an unbuttoned blue plaid shirt over a black T-shirt that featured Barack Obama's face. His black goatee was so thick that his mouth disappeared into it. "You're just going to get yourself in trouble."
"But he's trespassin' on my prop'ty!" she shouted.
"He's just standing on the sidewalk. Will you stop?" He looked at Gage. "I'm sorry, sir. She was never like this until the last couple years. Did you want something, or were you just walking by?"
"Actually," Gage said, "a friend of mine grew up in this neighborhood and was friends with the people who lived in this house. I was just curious if you might have known them. I told him I'd ask."
"You mean the Meyers?"
"So you did know them?"
"What people?" the old woman said. "What people is he talking about, David?"
"The people who lived here before us, Mom."
"Oh!" She squinted at Gage. "You can't have the place back now. My little boy bought it fair and square."
Ignoring his mother, David focused on Gage. "Mom was friends with Ronnie. They were in a book club together. When she passed away, Mom told me about the house, and I got a chance to buy it before it got on the market."
"Oh." Gage concentrated on the old woman. "Ma'am, do you remember Ronnie at all?"
"Ronnie?"
"Yes. She had a son named Howie. Howard Meyer."
"Howard!" the woman exclaimed.
"You remember him?"
"Howard Cosell! Now isn't he the best!" She paused, then eyed him with suspicion again. "You're not with the govn'rt now, are you?"
Gage looked at David, who shrugged helplessly. David ushered his mother back inside and returned a moment later, sans shotgun. He apologized for the way his mother had threatened Gage and hoped the police wouldn't have to be called. Gage assured him he wouldn't, and asked a few more questions, but David said he'd grown up mostly with his father in Portland and really hadn't really known Ronnie at all.
Disappointed that he hadn't gleaned more information, Gage thanked him for his time and turned to go.
"Oh," he said, turning back, "one last thing. What did you think of Howie? You must have met him. Or did you buy the house through the broker?"
"No, never met him. I think he sells insurance in town, right?"
"That's right."
"Yeah, it was all done through Green Willow Real Estate. But I think I gave you the wrong impression. Ronnie didn't own the place. She just rented it."
"Oh." Gage figured that made sense. Ronnie probably hadn't had enough money to buy a home. "Who owned it then?"
David scratched his beard. "Hmm. Let me see. I could probably dig through my boxes in the attic and find the paperwork for you, but I can't really remember offhand. But I do remember when I asked who it was later, somebody told me he once owned a popular diner in town."
* * *
Back in his van, Gage called Alex, asking him to look up the pro
perty's history on the online county records site. Alex grumbled about it, but did, and it was true: Edward T. Boone had owned the place until David Garland. On the way back to his house, Gage stopped at Howie Meyer's insurance office. Howie was there, talking animatedly on the phone, and he waved Gage to one of the empty seats. He was explaining to someone how their homeowner's insurance would cover flooding from a pipe breaking, but not a tsunami, and the person didn't seem to be getting it.
When he finally hung up, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
"Most of my clients are pretty reasonable," he said. "Unfortunately, it's not the reasonable ones who take most of my time. What can I help you with this time? Change your mind about getting a policy?"
Gage relayed his visit to Howie's old house. When he got to the part about Ed Boone being the owner of the property, Howie stared at him, slack-jawed.
"You're kidding!" he said.
"You didn't know?"
"God no. Wow, that puts Uncle Ed in a whole new light."
"Do you know if she was actually paying rent?"
"Well, if she wasn't, she sure was going to a lot of trouble of faking it. She always dropped off her check at Evergreen Property Management. I was with her a bunch of times when she did. Are you sure he owned the place? I could look it up online …"
"Already did," Gage said.
"Wow. Uncle Ed, our landlord. That's crazy. I guess that also explains why he was always there looking after the place, if he owned it. But why the property management company? Oh, wait." He looked thoughtful.
"Yes?"
"Maybe it does make sense. I don't think Uncle Ed's wife was all that keen on him being such good friends with Mom. He might have been hiding it from her, not Mom."
It was a good theory. Gage also wondered how much Ed was charging Ronnie in rent. Was he giving her a cut rate? Someone else might have found it hard to believe Ed wasn't having an affair with Ronnie, but not Gage. Again, he was seeing himself in Ed Boone. Gage had owned a house and rented it to his housekeeper—Zoe's grandmother, Mattie—and hadn't charged what he could have gotten on the open market. Why? Because it had been necessary, that was why.
"Do you remember the kids in the neighborhood?" Gage asked.
Howie's gaze was distant, and a couple of beats passed before he realized Gaze had asked a question. "Sorry?" he said. "I was just thinking about how nice Uncle Ed was. I should have stayed in contact with him."
"I was just asking if you remember any of the kids in the neighborhood around your mom's house."
"Why?"
"I heard there was a group that hung out together. I was just wondering if you were part of them."
Howie nodded. "Well, yeah, there a bunch of kids around my age. They ranged all over the place—the beach, the casino parking lot, riding skateboards, bikes, playing Frisbee. Just hanging out. I'll be honest, though, I was pretty shy back then. I didn't really hang out with them much."
"Would you remember any of their names?"
Howie's brow furrowed. "You're not really writing a book about Barnacle Bluffs in general, are you?"
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, it's one thing to focus so much on Uncle Ed. He did own a popular diner, and I bet there's all kinds of stories connected to it. But the kids in my neighborhood? What's this really about? It's his suicide, isn't it?" His eyes widened. "You don't think he was murdered, do you?"
Gage hesitated, trying to decide how much to reveal about his investigation, and that pause was all the confirmation Howie needed.
"Really!" he exclaimed. "Wow, a murder investigation."
"I wouldn't jump to conclusions," Gage said.
"Oh? Come on, you can tell me something, right?"
"I'll admit that writing the book is … not my primary purpose. Can you remember any of the kids who lived around you? Any of their names?"
"Why, is one of them a suspect?"
"Howie—"
"Man, this is interesting. Come on, you can tell me what this is about. Maybe I can help if I knew a bit more."
Telling an insurance agent about Nora West, especially an insurance agent who'd freely admitted he couldn't stop himself from talking about things he shouldn't, did not seem like a good idea to Gage. Still, Howie was right. If he knew a bit more of the truth, he might be able to help better.
"I'm looking into the possibility that Ed Boone had a child with someone other than his wife."
"Really!"
"Any thoughts?"
"And the client is the child?"
"Maybe."
"Man, you just won't tell me anything, will you? And this child, he doesn't want this information out, huh?"
"I never said it was a he."
"Excuse me, she."
"I didn't say it was a she either."
Howie laughed and raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay. But that's really interesting. Uncle Ed, an affair … Well, it's hard to believe. I mean, if he wouldn't with Mom … But I guess they were more like friends, no matter how much I wanted it to be different. I never heard him say anything about another woman, but I guess he wouldn't. Probably not even with Mom. So these kids in the neighborhood, was this mysterious child one of them or something?"
"I don't know."
"Or do you think one of them grew up to murder him?"
"Again, I wouldn't jump to any conclusions."
"Uh huh. Names, huh? Well, it's been a long time, and like I said, I didn't really hang out with that group all that much. There was a kid named Jimmy Long. Bob … Bob something. He had bright red hair. There was a girl, too, one they all seemed to like. Norma or something. A lot of them were just faces to me. But I'll rack my brains and see if I can think of any more. You want to give me your phone number?"
"I don't have a—" Gage began, then caught himself. Of course he could do that.
He just had to make Howie wait while he looked up on the phone exactly what that number was.
Chapter 19
The DNA paternity results came in on Friday. Gage, sitting in his bathrobe at his kitchen table, was hardly off the phone with Alex and he was already calling Nora. It went to voicemail, but he'd only started speaking when his phone chirped and the screen showed him it was Nora calling. He tried to click over but hung up on her instead. Then he dialed her again and she did the same, and he managed to repeat the same foolish mistake.
"Hello? Hello?" he said.
"Yes, I'm here this time," she said. She sounded groggy.
"Sorry about that. Still new at this thing. I've got news."
"Oh?"
"Edward Boone is your biological father."
There was a long pause. In the stillness of his house, with no wind against the windows and no traffic from the highway, his thumping heart was loud in his ears. A band of sunlight fell across the table, illuminating each little divot and groove in the maple, each spot of dried milk or coffee. After a moment, he thought he heard sniffling.
"Nora?"
"Yeah," she said.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
"You sound like you're … crying."
"It's okay. I'm okay."
"It's good news, right? It's what you wanted."
"It's good news. I don't—I don't know what I wanted. But it's good, yeah. It's good to know. It's just … so many people lied to me. Mom lied. He lied. Why? I don't get it. I would have liked to know him better."
"I know."
"You find out anything new about that whole house thing?"
Gage had been keeping Nora up on his investigation with nightly reports. Sometimes these were very late, since Nora had been doing her best to get out and be seen in public, at movie screenings, nightclubs, and various industry parties, but she had not gone one day without connecting with him. He sensed that he was acting as some sort of lifeline for her, keeping her from drowning in the chaos of her life, and he didn't mind. He just didn't know how much longer he could keep it up. What would happen when there
was nothing more he could do for her?
"Not much more than you already know," Gage said. "That property management company is long since gone, so there was no one to talk to there. I think it's just what it appears. He was just trying to help out his friend. You really didn't remember her son, huh? Howie?"
"Well, I think I might remember him being in a couple classes with me, but I'm not sure. I'm sorry. I was pretty self-absorbed back then and people just kind of floated in and out of my life. Sad, huh? I should have paid more attention. I guess not much has changed. People are still just a blur to me."
"That's not true."
"Sure it is. Except for you, anyway. You are definitely not a blur. I'm counting down the days until I can see you again. I miss you so much. I know that's crazy, since we spent so little time together, but I do. Gosh, I sound pathetic."
"No, you don't. And I miss you too. But we want to put your safety first. I have some other news, and you're not going to like it. Elliott Younger was named the personal representative by the probate judge."
"Personal representative?"
"It's the legal term for executor in Oregon."
"Oh man."
"It's what we expected. And don't worry; these things take time, lots of time. From what I read, we have at least four months, because that's what the law gives any possible creditors to come forward and make their claims. They get their money before the heirs."
"I just don't want those weasels getting Ed's … my father's money if they killed him. It's so wrong."
"I just need proof, Nora."
"I know, I know." She paused. "Maybe if I came up there …"
"No."
"But maybe I can help. I might, I don't know, remember something useful if I'm up there. Those assholes went to the same school, you know? They were a grade ahead of me, and I didn't know them, but they were definitely there. I found them in my old middle school yearbook."
"You still have your middle school yearbook?"
"Yeah. Strange, huh? It's not like I even liked school all that much. But it's something solid, I guess. So much of my childhood is shaky, but the yearbook is solid. My picture's in here a bunch, too. Which is strange, considering how little I went to school. I actually look happy in them. Maybe that's what I like about it. The pictures make me look like a normal, happy kid."
A Lighthouse for the Lonely Heart: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series Book 5) Page 22
