Nothing Done in Secret

by Scott Edwards

  Moffat walked back from the printer carrying a stack of the DMV records for fifteen young men from the 1970 table. Passing De la Peña’s desk, he saw a similar printout, this for Sandra Smith, that the Sergeant had left after trying to verify his theory that she had run over a mobster’s child. Moffat smiled, trying to imagine the godfather who’s turf would have been the sparsely settled Segovia County of 1970. Moffat scooped these pages into his own stack and returned to his seat.

  Falcone was at the top of the pile. The full name, including middle name, and address matched the draft board data.

  “Uh Oh,” Moffat whispered, comparing the remaining information. “What is this?”

  The birth date didn’t match. This was exactly the kind of clue Moffat was looking for.

  “Mr. Falcone, the DMV says you were born February 14th. The Selective Service thinks you were born March 14th.”

  Moffat checked the draft lottery results he had bookmarked from the Internet. “Big difference,” he whispered. The lottery number from February 14 was 006. March 14th’s was 354. Now, of course, this turnabout in the young man’s prospects could be the result of a typographical error. Moffat didn’t think so. He would have to see the file to be sure. One by one, Moffat crosschecked the birth dates of the other men he had looked up on the DMV database. Ferguson, then the younger Pane, the two other Miner’s Flat residents and the rest of the last twelve on the list - those with draft lottery numbers 320 and above - all checked out. Gregory Lawrence Falcone’s was the only one of the sample with an error.

  Moffat added the job of double checking the birth dates of every other man on the full list to his Monday tasks. If Falcone did escape the draft, who went in his place? Moffat thought he should be able to determine that easily enough.

  Everything had changed. With the bright, overhead lighting in the office and three long windows facing the street below, Moffat suddenly felt exposed. He lowered the wooden Venetian blinds and rotated the wand to close them. Thoughts raced through his mind. The fact that it was Loraine’s son, of all the men on the list, opened up many possibilities. For the first time, he believed he could make some progress in constructing a plausible joint scenario. At first, it was somewhat like building a house of cards, with the structure occasionally collapsing under a doubtful or disprovable assumption. Then the process came more to resemble the construction of an arch, in which the structure cannot support itself until the addition of the last piece, the keystone. For Moffat, the keystone appeared to him when he noticed Sandra Smith’s birth date, February 14, 1947. A child in the same school in a small town sharing a birthday with another would remember this special coincidence, wouldn’t she? Cover up or revenge…these words crossed Moffat’s mind.

  * * *

  “Oh,” he whispered. He had found a motive for the recent murder and a group of assumptions that could be supported. How would he collect the proof he would need? Moffat sat motionless for nearly five minutes. Then he picked up the Spring Festival flyer and examined the schedule of Saturday’s events and the festival sponsorships.

  ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER 69

  “This is Sergeant Latham.” The watch commander was surprised when Moffat’s name appeared on the caller id screen on a Friday night at 9:52. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  “Good evening, Sergeant. I would like you to write instructions for tomorrow’s day shift and schedule some uniformed officers to carry out several tasks for me.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I need someone to contact Catherine Martius and Cheryl Haugen. Tell the two women that officers will pick them up at 1:30. I want you to do the same with Reverend and Mrs. Arthur Pane. Also, contact April Slater in the morning. Have an officer pick up her and her four-year old son at 1:00. Once they have collected these people, have the officers call me for instructions. I’ll need the same arrangement for Dr. Neil Zielinski of Mark Twain Community Hospital.

  “Got it, sir. Anything else?”

  “One more thing. Tell all the officers they will bring these people to the Miner’s Flat Spring Festival. It’s on the grounds of the high school.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have tomorrow’s watch commander phone me if there are any problems. Thanks. Have a good night.”

  “Yes, sir. Good night.”

  ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER 70

  Saturday, May 27

  At 7:00 a.m., the star left fielder of Coach Halvorsen’s Police Department All Stars pushed himself out of bed, took a very hot shower, pulled on sweatpants and a tee shirt, combed his black hair back from his face and began twenty minutes of stretching. De la Peña reached slowly to the floor, placing his palms down against the carpet, feeling his hamstring tendons lengthening with the slow movement. The television was broadcasting the news. De la Peña listened hopefully for some word of success in the statewide manhunt. Trouble in Iraq and Iran… the Presidential Campaign in Mexico. Then came the disappointing news that Wyman Buck’s whereabouts after his visit to a San Gabriel savings and loan late Thursday were a complete mystery. De la Peña twisted and stretched his lower back, then concentrated on his shoulders and neck. He was in a great mood. Both the Chief and Captain Moffat seemed to accept the failure to capture Buck with much more equanimity than De la Peña could muster. Neither blamed him. This morning, he decided to let go of his own disappointment and enjoy the day. After practice last night, he and his teammates had gone for pizza and beer. This morning they were meeting their opponents at the festival grounds for a pre-game pancake breakfast. De la Peña packed a change of clothes for after the game into his gym bag. He changed into a modified baseball uniform consisting of pinstripe baseball pants, a long sleeve tee shirt, protective gear and cleated shoes. He threw his glove in the bag and set off on what promised to be a very pleasant day.

  * * *

  Loraine Jamison had taken her morning bath. The effort drained her energy. She sat on the padded bench before her vanity and rested. She intended to do her make up and hair but her mind drifted as she sat. A few minutes passed and the dog Cocoa apparently became concerned. He placed his front paws against the side of her leg, pushing on her quilted robe. Whimpering turned into a bark and Loraine pulled her mind back to the present. She patted his head, stood slowly and walked to the door, opening it and letting him pass through before closing it again.

  Across the house, at the kitchen counter, Aaron sat on a stool, a bowl of cereal half eaten before him. He held a cell phone in his right hand, a text message ready to send to Michelle. It said he would leave in a few minutes on his bike for the high school. Aaron heard the dog’s license tag tap against the metal loop of its lavender rhinestone collar. He stepped off the stool, bent down and picked it up with his left arm then got back on the stool to finish breakfast.

  Aaron was looking forward to the day. He had told his grandmother he couldn’t work the Gillis Realty Executives Refreshment Pavilion today because he had volunteered to help staff one of the organization booths. Michelle and his other new friends would be there with him as well as some of their parents. Aaron’s sleeping bag, pillow and small toiletries kit were on the couch in the family room. Before he left on his bike, he would borrow his grandmother’s car keys and put them in her trunk so he could pick them up later for the campout. Tonight, Aaron and most of the north county teenagers would be sleeping in tents on the football field, each sponsored by friends and family whose contributions were expected to raise $60,000 for the American Cancer Society.

  * * *

  Back in town, in Miner’s Flat’s old section, Catherine Martius sat at her kitchen table. She had been up by six but was only now about to eat breakfast. A steaming bowl of oatmeal was before her. She sprinkled three spoons of brown sugar, then poured low fat milk around the sides of the cereal. Allowing the oatmeal to cool, Catherine emptied her Saturday pills from a pink plastic seven-day pill dispenser into her hand then placed them on a cloth napkin. Furosemide, a small white tablet serving as a diu
retic; white diamond-shaped amlodipidine to treat pulmonary hypertension; large, rose-colored simvastatin to reduce cholesterol; and yellow digoxin for improvement in pumping ability all were there to treat congestive heart failure. She took them one at a time with a glass of milk then began to slowly eat the oatmeal.

  * * *

  Five miles away, Catherine’s daughter Cheryl dressed in a pink sweat suit jogged through the narrow streets of her neighborhood. She had been meaning to start an exercise program for months now. The normal stress of the job, the extra worries of being interrogated by the police and her life-long problem controlling her weight - these were the reasons she used to convince herself to finally “get off her big butt” and do something healthy for herself. It had been surprisingly easy to get up early. Now twenty-five minutes into the jog, Cheryl slowed to a brisk walk. She enjoyed the morning air and spring flowers - daffodils, pansies and geraniums - decorating the front yards in the neighborhood. When she got back, she would have a healthy breakfast, dust and vacuum the living room and clean the kitchen before dressing and picking up her mother for their day at the Pioneer Days Spring Festival.

  * * *

  While Catherine’s fifty-four year old daughter finished a morning jog, her best friend Martha Pane filled two mugs with coffee and brought them to the kitchen table where the Reverend Pane sat studying the real estate section of the newspaper. Martha watched her husband, eager to know what he was looking for. He raised his head and returned her gaze, unsmiling. When it was obvious she wouldn’t ask, he sighed.

  “I’ve made an appointment with an agent. He’ll pick us up at four at the festival.”

  “Do you think he can find us a church already built? It would be nice if we could move the congregation without any disruption.”

  “No.”

  Martha thought for a few seconds. “So are we looking for property so we can build a new church? It would be nice if we could find something close.”

  “No, Martha. We’re looking for a new home for ourselves. The church at the strip mall will be fine for now.”

  “Oh, but Arthur. It’s so plain and dreary.” It just doesn’t seem like a house of worship. It was a karate school before we leased it.”

  “It will do for now. Let the congregation buy property and build a new church. That’s not going to be our concern.”

  He spoke with the authoritative voice, the one that usually ended any discussion at home or at church. Martha was uneasy. In a timid voice she asked, “Didn’t Lewis leave you that money for the church?”

  “That money is mine, not the church’s.”

  Martha said nothing. She thought of her friend Mary Jane Franke buried up the hill in the cemetery. What would become of her and so many other friends Martha had seen buried in that beautiful place? Veronica Gillis had received County Planning Commission approval to relocate the graves. Would that still occur if the Reverend didn’t use his inheritance to buy back the church?

  * * *

  Nicholas Conti sat alone at an octagonal oak table in the sunny breakfast nook by the kitchen. Conti’s wife was in Redmond, Washington for a series of business meetings. Brenda, the cook/housekeeper had cleared his breakfast dishes and was now working many rooms away, out of earshot. His only son was still in bed. Nicholas had heard Scott come in at 2:05 last night. He had hoped his son would make it an early night because of the need to be at the Festival grounds at 10:30. Conti had been surprised when Scott agreed to work at the booth on the charity arcade that Conti & Associates was sponsoring to raise money for the Food Bank. Scott said yes and without an argument or demanding a bribe. Two other boys, sons of Conti’s employees, had committed to working the booth as well and Nicholas knew they were friends of his son. That must have been what did it. Thank heaven for small miracles, as Nicholas’ father would say. Conti now had to dress for his special role in the day’s activities. First he would tell Brenda to wake Scott at ten. Conti would phone him on his cell ten minutes later--after Scott’s anger at being awakened had a chance to dissipate--to make sure he left for the festival by ten twenty five. It wouldn’t look good for the boss’s son to get there late.

  * * *

  At the high school, an assortment of structures was going up rapidly. The refreshment tent was the largest. Its assembly was solely the work of the rental company employees. They had politely turned down offers of assistance from the many volunteers who had arrived hours earlier. Rows of steel and canvas booths were growing on the lawn nearest the parking lot. Recreation clubs, social organizations, counseling and medical facilities provided their own squads of volunteers who were attaching banners with their groups’ names, taping down plastic tablecloths on folding tables to withstand the breeze and in other ways decorating their individual pieces of choice real estate.

  On the grass behind the baseball field, Wade Gillis directed the set up of the Kids’ Corral. A party equipment rental firm had started to inflate a huge bouncing castle. Nearby, volunteers arranged bales of straw to section off the small animal petting zoo. Lambs, goats, rabbits, a baby llama and other animals were still in trailers waiting to be relocated to their temporary pens. Wade watched three thin, unshaven men - probably brothers - assemble a merry-go-round. They swore and smoked non-stop but Wade could tell they were doing a competent job. Others would have said Wade was glum. He hadn’t been seen to smile by any of the several dozen people with whom he interacted that morning. Deep in his heart, Wade was cheered at the joy the corral would bring to hundreds of children this weekend.

  * * *

  Back in the Segovia hills, Moffat first stirred after a restful night’s sleep. He, Jean and Allison had stayed up late the night before “catching up.” Mom and Dad delighted in hearing about their daughter’s job and life and at having their small family reunited, though it had only been a month since they were last together in Sacramento. Allison, as always, was interested in her father’s current investigations. She insisted on all the details of Buck’s escape including the accident and his removal of the Ruger from the trunk. This was the first time Jean had heard the more perilous aspects of the car chase and accident, but she made no comment. Allison approved of her Mother’s small job helping Mrs. Grubb research the 1970 murder. Moffat guessed the two of them, during their daily phone calls, had discussed Jean’s need to find new ways to spend her spare time. He thought it would be a worthwhile topic for later in the weekend since he was sure Allison would not encourage a return to extensive real estate activities for her mother. For his part, Moffat mentioned that he would have to take care of a few police matters during the day but that he would handle them by phone and on the spot at the festival. We three will still have the entire day together, he promised them.

  When Moffat came downstairs, the table was set for breakfast on the patio. The morning sun lit grass and oak-covered hills to the left as well as newly green vineyards below and to the right. Moffat smiled thinking whatever else Jean may wish to change in her life, it wouldn’t be this place. His wife and daughter were talking and laughing as they brought the meal to the table. It looked fairly healthy: scrambled eggbeaters with low fat cheddar, slices of turkey bacon and a large bowl of sliced strawberries, apples and oranges, but there were also fresh baked biscuits and Jean’s homemade pineapple jam.

  ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER 71

  It was after eleven when Moffat turned the Highlander into the entrance of the Miner’s Flat High School student parking lot. Like the rest of the campus the lot was spacious and beautifully landscaped. Still, it was nearly full from the event crowd. A uniformed policeman waved to Moffat and directed him to a parking space very near the path to the festival from which a teen age volunteer was removing a temporary barrier.

  “Look,” Jean said, stepping out of the SUV. “There is Norma and Ralph’s motor home. Let’s wait for them.”

  In the distance, Moffat saw Jean’s aunt standing behind the vehicle signaling Ralph who was at the wheel, his head thrust out of the windo
w. Though their voices were unintelligible at the distance, Norma was obviously attempting to guide Ralph into two spaces intended for normal sized automobiles. It didn’t appear to be going well. Ralph pulled forward and backed up twice, each time coming perilously close first to a car on the left then one on the right. On his third try, Ralph managed to center the motor home evenly between both cars then continued to back up onto the concrete curb surrounding a planter directly behind him, knocking down a young oak that was positioned between two wooden support poles, surrounded by ivy. Ralph swore - they could make that out clearly - then pulled forward three feet.

  “Maybe we should go ahead,” Jean suggested. “We can find them later.”

  Moffat and Jean each took one of Allison’s hands and the three walked around the school building toward the temporary festival grounds. “Just like the old days, isn’t it dear?” Moffat said to Jean.

  “Well, I don’t think we have to worry so much about her running away from us this morning.” Turning to Allison, Jean said “It used to take both of us to keep you under control.”

  “I think you might have mentioned that once or twice,” Allison said laughing.

  The open space behind the facility, including basketball courts and grass-covered athletic fields, was filled with festival activities. The biggest part of the crowd occupied the bleachers for a softball game. They walked toward the field. Allison read the score on a modern electronic scoreboard that would have been the envy of most minor league professional baseball clubs. “Your team is behind, Dad. It’s nine to six. It’s still the fourth inning, though.”