by Janet Dawson
My mother was where she usually was in the evenings, at her restaurant, Café Marie, in her hometown of Monterey. She, too, made plans to leave things in the hands of her capable staff and drive north.
It was after ten o’clock that night when Dan dropped me off at my home in the Rockridge section of Oakland, on Chabot Road, just off College Avenue. My cats, Abigail and Black Bart, meowed at me indignantly, acting as though I’d been gone for weeks instead of days. They had received food, water, litter box care and lots of attention from Darcy, my tenant, who lived in the studio above the garage. Regardless of how long I’d been away, they still needed reassurance that I loved them. They also wanted feeding again, just because. I fell into bed, stroking furry cats who snuggled close to me in bed. I worried about my brother until I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
I got up at six-thirty on Tuesday morning, fed the cats again, and sent a text message to Darcy to let her know I was home. I was on my second cup of coffee when the phone rang.
It was Sheila, nearly hysterical. She was calling to tell me that Brian’s MedicAlert bracelet had been found with a corpse.
After finding the bracelet, Detectives Griffin and Harris had notified the MedicAlert Foundation to find out if the registry had contact information for Brian Howard. Then they saw the missing persons report Sheila had filed on Monday with the Petaluma police. That report had mentioned the bracelet, which Brian always wore since the family had discovered his penicillin allergy, back when he was a kid. The detectives had then contacted the Petaluma Police Department. The detective in charge of that case had called Sheila, asking if she or a member of the family could come to the morgue to look at the body. Neither my sister-in-law, my mother, or my father could face the prospect of identifying my brother’s body. It was left to me.
But the man in the morgue wasn’t Brian. Now I had lots of questions and no answers. And I was following a trail that was already several days cold.
Three
He felt as though he’d stepped through the looking glass.
All he’d wanted to do was get away for a few days. Away—from trouble, arguments, pressures.
How had everything gone so wrong?
Now all he wanted to do was get away from here.
“This is a mistake,” he said. “I’ll just leave now.”
Why did they look so hostile? One of them had a gun.
He backed away. Then he ran. But they were quicker.
They manhandled him through the door. His bracelet caught on something sharp. A nail. It scraped his wrist. The band of the bracelet broke. He heard it fall, saw the glint of the metal links on the wood plank floor.
He struggled against his captors, but they overwhelmed him. Then his forehead slammed against something, so loud he heard the crack. He saw stars. Pain lanced through him like daggers.
Everything turned black.
Four
My aunt and uncle live in the St. Rose neighborhood, just north of downtown Santa Rosa. Caro is Dad’s younger sister. Her real name is Caroline, but when she was born Dad had trouble with the longer name and called her Caro. The name stuck.
Caro writes historical novels. Her husband, Neil, is retired from the Santa Rosa City Planning Department. Their three children are grown and out of the house. As it happened, my uncle was away from home this week. An avid tennis player, he was competing in mixed and men’s doubles at the National Senior Games.
My parents are divorced, a few years now. Despite their break-up, they’ve remained friends. I’ve always had a close bond with my father. My relationship with Mother has been prickly in the past, but we’re getting along better these days.
When Sheila called this morning, I grabbed my keys and ran out to my car. I got on the freeway and headed north. I called the Sonoma County Coroner’s Office from the road, arranging for the family to meet the detectives there at eleven.
Now it was past noon. In Caro’s comfortable living room, Mother and Dad sat side by side on the sofa, holding hands as though they were each other’s lifelines. They’re both in their late sixties, both vigorous, active, in good shape. Today they looked haggard, as though they’d aged overnight.
Caro came in from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and glasses. She set the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa, filled glasses, and handed them round. I took a sip and set the glass on the end table. I pulled out my phone and a small notebook.
“When was the last time either of you saw or talked with Brian?” I asked my parents.
“The last weekend in July, on Saturday,” Dad said. “That was a couple of days after Sheila and the kids went down to Firebaugh. Brian and I went birding at Abbotts Lagoon.”
I wrote the date and the information in my notebook. The hike out to the lagoon off the Pacific Ocean at the Point Reyes National Seashore was a popular one for Bay Area birders. Dad has become a birder since he retired and it’s keeping him active.
“We met at the Bovine Bakery in Point Reyes Station,” Dad continued. “I guess it was around seven-thirty. We had coffee and pastries, talked a while. Then we left my car there in town and drove his old Jeep, the one he uses for camping.”
“What did you talk about?”
Dad thought for a moment. “We just talked, you know. He told me all about the family camping trip to Yosemite in June. And he said he was looking forward to starting his new teaching job in Petaluma.”
“Did he say anything about plans to go away for a while?”
“Yes, he did. He said that Sheila was due back from Firebaugh on Tuesday, and they were going camping again, at Plumas–Eureka State Park up by Graeagle.”
“But Sheila didn’t come back from Firebaugh until Sunday,” I said.
“I’m sure he said Tuesday,” Dad said. “They must have had a change in plans. Brian said he had a reservation at a campground up there. He was looking forward to the trip. One last family outing before school starts.”
A change in plans, I thought. Did that have something to do with the argument Brian and Sheila had on the phone a week ago?
“Did he hint that there might be anything going on between him and Sheila?”
Dad shook his head. “No. Believe me, I would have remembered that.”
“He didn’t say anything to me,” Mother said. “But I thought there might be.”
I turned to Mother. “How so?”
She leaned against the back of the sofa, her brow furrowed. “Brian and I talk on the phone about once a week, sometimes more often. The last time I spoke with him was a week ago Sunday, the day after your father saw him. He told me Sheila and the children had gone to Firebaugh—again. I remember him saying that, ‘again.’ And the way he said it.” Mother sighed. “It sounded as though he was upset that she was going away. She’s been back and forth to Firebaugh a lot during the spring and summer, because her father’s ill. But he didn’t elaborate. We talked about other things, including this new job he’s starting in Petaluma. He’s excited about it.”
“I don’t talk with him as often as you do,” I said. “He did call my cell phone last Friday, but he didn’t leave a message. I called him back but he didn’t answer, so I left a message. Sheila says she hasn’t talked with him since last Monday. That was eight days ago. So as far as we know, no one in the family has talked with Brian since Monday a week ago. Unless...” I looked at Caro.
My aunt shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since the Fourth of July. We had a big barbecue, invited the relatives who live up in this area. Brian, Sheila, and the kids came over.” Caro stood and took a step in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll fix lunch. If anyone’s hungry.”
I put my cell phone and the notebook in my purse. “I’ll pass. I’m going down to Petaluma to talk with Sheila. I’ll check in later.”
Five
Until recently, my brother and his family lived in Sonoma, in the eastern part of the county, where Brian taught middle school, in the Sonoma Unified School District.
Then, at the end of this most recent school year, he had accepted a job in Petaluma, teaching at a junior high school in the Petaluma Joint Union School District. He was supposed to start the new job in mid-August. Classes started around the third week of the month, and teachers usually began the school year a few days earlier. This was the first week in August, so I figured Brian was due at his new school the following week.
Brian and Sheila made the move from Sonoma to Petaluma the last weekend in June, about six weeks ago. For the time being, they were renting a house in East Petaluma. It was located in a development of tract houses off McDowell Road, near Lucchesi Park and the Petaluma Valley Hospital. I had an address, though I had not been to this house before. It looked small, but the situation was temporary. Once Brian and Sheila sold their house in Sonoma, they’d buy a bigger place here in Petaluma.
But first I had to find my brother and figure out what was behind his disappearance.
I parked my Toyota in the driveway behind Sheila’s Honda, walked to the small front porch, and rang the bell. A moment later, Sheila opened the front door. She had changed out of the slacks and shirt she’d worn to the coroner’s office, and now she was dressed in a faded T-shirt, blue cotton shorts, and slip-on sandals.
My sister-in-law looked exhausted and on edge. The events of the past forty-eight hours were taking their toll. Without a word, she motioned me inside.
The front door opened onto a small entry hall. To my left a short passage led to the double car garage. Sheila led the way into the house, crowded with furniture from the Sonoma house and boxes that had yet to be unpacked. One corner of the dining room had been turned into an office, containing a desk with drawers on the right side. Above the desk’s kneehole was a computer with a large flat-screen monitor and an ergonomic keyboard and mouse.
A sliding glass door off the dining room was open. Just the other side of the screen was a square wooden deck and the big backyard. There was an oak tree in one corner of the yard, a rope hammock hanging from a sturdy low branch. Another corner of the yard held a mature fig tree, branches heavy with fruit. Between the two trees was a garden patch surrounded by a red brick border. At some point someone—Brian?—had been weeding, I noticed, seeing a low plastic bucket full of dried vegetation.
My eight-year-old nephew, Todd, was in the middle of the garden patch, digging in the dirt with a trowel. My niece, Amy, who was six, played on a swing set just this side of the oak tree.
“I’ve got lemonade in the refrigerator,” Sheila said. “Do you want some?”
“Yes, that sounds good.”
We took our glasses out onto the deck. Amy left the swing set and came running. I set my glass on the table and leaned down to hug my niece. Amy circled my waist with her arms. She looked up at me. “Hi, Aunt Jeri. Is Daddy with you?”
“No, sweetie. He’s not.”
Amy looked perplexed. “Daddy went away when we were at Grandma’s house. I want him to come home.”
“I know you do.” I looked past Amy at Todd, who had left off digging in the garden. He hung back, dirt on his hands, T-shirt, and shorts, a troubled expression on his face. “Are you planting something, Todd?”
“Just digging.” He shrugged, opened his mouth and then shut it, as though he was going to say something else and thought better of it.
“What is it, Todd?”
He took a deep breath. “Aunt Jeri, did Daddy go away because of me? Because of something bad I did?”
I knelt in front of him and put my arms on his shoulders. “Oh, no, Todd. I don’t believe that at all. I can’t imagine that you would do anything bad. What makes you think that?”
“Well...” He looked at his mother.
Sheila was shaking her head. “Todd, honey, we’ve been over that. You didn’t mean for Cameron to get hurt. It was an accident.”
“Then why did Daddy go away?” he asked, tears brimming in his eyes. Next to him Amy look as though she, too, was about to cry.
“Your mom and I are going to talk about that,” I said. “But we need to do that grown-up to grown-up. So it would help if you kids would leave us alone for just a little while.”
“Okay.” Todd took Amy’s hand and led her away from the deck, to the swing set. He settled her into one of the swings and began pushing her.
I reached for the glass of lemonade. The weather on this August afternoon was hot, and the cold, icy lemonade tasted good, its sweet-and-sour tang lingering in my mouth. I sat down in one of the chairs. “What’s this about an accident with Cameron?”
Sheila ran a hand through her short brown hair. “A kid who lives down the street. Todd met him last month, just after we moved in. A couple of weeks ago, they were playing in our front yard, just roughhousing, the way boys do. Todd pushed Cameron. The kid fell and cut his forehead. Then we had his parents over here yelling at us. A great start to living in this neighborhood.” She sighed. “It’s just one damn thing after another.”
“We need to talk about Brian.” She looked past me and didn’t say anything. “Sheila, I need some answers.”
“So do I,” she snapped, her voice sounding ragged. “And I don’t have any.”
“Sheila, what’s going on?”
“When you figure it out let me know.”
I set the glass on the table and leaned forward. “Sheila, I am here to help. I want to find Brian as much as you do.”
She glared at me. “I’m not sure I want to find him.”
I was taken aback by the anger simmering in her brown eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do. At least I think I do. Damn it, how could he do this to us?”
Six
We sat silent for a moment. What was behind Sheila’s anger? It had to be fueled by something beyond the immediate shock of Brian’s disappearance.
I thought back to the fight they’d had during their last phone conversation. It had been a bad one, she said. Was their marriage in trouble?
“Sheila...” I began.
“I didn’t want to move here,” she said. “I didn’t want to leave Sonoma. We had a great house there, lots of friends, a wonderful life. We lived there ten years, ever since we got our first teaching jobs, after we graduated from Davis.”
A wonderful life, I thought. The phrase made me think of the classic Frank Capra film It’s A Wonderful Life, starring Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey, who decided, after various trials and tribulations, that he really had many blessings after all. However, the film had a dark edge to it. Maybe Sheila’s recollection of good times in Sonoma didn’t jibe with those of my brother. Maybe that was the undercurrent running beneath all this.
I’ll be thirty-six this year, and Brian just turned thirty-two, so my kid brother is four years younger than me. Sheila is the same age as Brian. They met when they were undergraduates at the University of California in Davis, in the Central Valley near Sacramento, and they married the summer after they graduated. After receiving their teaching credentials, they both got jobs in Sonoma, Sheila teaching elementary school, Brian in middle school. Then, with the arrival of their children, Sheila became a stay-at-home mom, planning to go back to work at some point, when the kids were older.
So they’d lived in Sonoma long enough to put down roots in the community. Sheila was a small-town girl who liked small-town life. She was born and raised in Firebaugh, an agricultural town in Fresno County, with a population of about seven thousand people. Sonoma, with its historic old plaza and wineries, was about eleven thousand people. Petaluma was much larger, with a population of about fifty-eight thousand. The distance between Sonoma and Petaluma was only about fifteen miles, but the difference between the two communities was even more dramatic to Sheila. To her, Petaluma was a big city, and she didn’t like cities.
“I don’t understand why Brian would give up a perfectly good job in Sonoma to move to another district here in Petaluma,” she said. “It’s not a promotion.”
“More of a lateral move?”
She nodded.
“The salary is about the same. Plus, he’s got to start over at the bottom of the pecking order, since he’s new to this district. I just don’t get it. Why did he do this?”
“Surely you discussed it before—”
“No, we didn’t,” Sheila interrupted. “I wasn’t consulted. This whole job change and move, it came at me out of the blue.”
I sipped my lemonade. She was angry about the move, but there was something else going on here, I was sure of it. But I didn’t have any idea what it was, not yet anyway. Brian could have commuted to Petaluma from Sonoma, but it sounded as though he wanted to leave the town as well as the job. I wondered why.
Okay, I thought. Let’s focus on the job situation first. It wasn’t like Brian to do something as important as changing jobs and moving his family without talking it over with his wife. My impression was that my brother viewed marriage as a partnership. He was conscientious, a fine, four-square, upstanding, all-round nice guy.
Or was he? I was his sister. Despite viewing him as a bratty annoyance when we were kids, I had a different view now that he was older. I thought Brian was a good guy. Certainly I would admit that my opinion was colored by our family relationship. But I’d never seen my brother behave in a fashion that would explain this situation, or my sister-in-law’s anger.
I set my glass on the table between us. “You say Brian had a perfectly good job in Sonoma. Think back. Are you sure he didn’t say something that indicated he was thinking about making a change? Was he dissatisfied with the job in Sonoma? Did something happen?”
Sheila frowned. “Well...yes. Just over a year ago, in April. The principal of the school where Brian was teaching suddenly died of a heart attack. Brian was very upset. He really liked the man who died. They were friends, and they had an excellent working relationship.”
“April of last year.” In my head, I counted back on the calendar. “So that would be about sixteen months ago. After his friend the principal died, did Brian bring up the possibility of changing schools?”
