Where The Bodies Are Buried (The Jeri Howard Series Book 8)

by Janet Dawson

  I didn’t return either message, at least not then. Instead I went back out to my car and headed for Interstate 580 and San Leandro. I drove southeast along the Oakland hills, which were covered with vegetation dun-colored after a summer without rain. I wondered if I’d delayed my trip to San Leandro long enough. I didn’t want to show up on Carol Hartzell’s doorstep and be the one to tell her that her brother was dead. But surely by now the Oakland Police Department had located and notified Rob’s next of kin.

  I took the Dutton Avenue exit off the freeway and headed west, toward the bay. Clarke Street was close to downtown San Leandro, just past the main drag, East Fourteenth Street, and below Davis. The address I was looking for was near the corner of Clarke and Parrott streets, a one-story stucco painted an unappetizing gray, with a small lawn covered in patchy brown grass. A four-door Buick sedan, mostly green with rust spots here and there on its dinged finish, was parked in the driveway.

  The front door was open on this September evening. Loud music with lots of twanging guitars and thumping drums reverberated out the screen door and onto the street. I rang the bell. The music didn’t abate, but a teenage boy appeared. He was about fourteen, wearing the currently popular uniform of baggy pants and T-shirt. His scraggly brown hair drooped onto his forehead and he had an earring in his left lobe.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Is this the Hartzell residence?”

  “Yeah,” he said again, only there wasn’t a question mark behind it.

  “I’m looking for Carol Hartzell. Do I have the right place?”

  “Yeah.”

  This was getting tiresome. “May I speak with her?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “When will she be back?” I felt as though I were pulling teeth. Was there someone more articulate in residence?

  In answer to my unspoken prayer, another face loomed over the boy’s shoulder. The girl was a couple of years older, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, but her face was older still, as though she’d had too much to deal with in this life. Short brown hair framed a round face punctuated with a pair of wary brown eyes. She wore shorts, a T-shirt, and a frown.

  “Doug, for God’s sake, turn that down,” she barked at the boy, raising her voice over the music. He glared at her, then shuffled away, evidently toward the stereo. The decibel level dropped several notches, making normal conversation possible. The girl looked me up and down. “Are you looking for my mother?”

  “If your mother is Carol Hartzell.”

  “What is this about?” Neither her voice nor her face answered my query.

  “It’s about your uncle. Rob Lawter.”

  “My uncle’s dead,” the girl said abruptly. “He fell—or jumped—out a window last night. Or so they say.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  Neither Sid Vernon nor his partner, Wayne Hobart, would have described the incident as a suicide, unless they had evidence to back up that scenario. Besides, the girl sounded as though she didn’t believe in either theory.

  The boy, Doug, shuffled back to the door and added his two cents. “The cops said he fell, when they came to tell Mom. They wanted her to go identify the body. She didn’t want to go by herself, so she called Leon at work. He said Rob must’ve jumped.”

  “Is Leon your stepfather?” I asked.

  This question was met by a derisive snort from Doug. The girl tightened her mouth. “He’s her boyfriend.”

  Why would Leon Gomes assume that Rob jumped? Did he know something the police didn’t? “Were you here when the police came?”

  Doug shook his head. “Nah, it was during the day. We were at school. Mom stayed home from work today ’cause she wasn’t feeling well. When we got home this afternoon Mom and Leon were just leaving to go to Oakland. That’s where it happened.”

  The girl shot him a sideways look, then turned her attention back to me. “You haven’t said why you’re here.”

  “I met your uncle a couple of days ago,” I said. “He wanted me to do something for him. I was really surprised to find out he was dead. My name’s Jeri, by the way. What’s yours?”

  “Robin,” she said, sounding reluctant to tell me even that. “What did my uncle want you to do for him?”

  “I’d rather discuss that with your mother.”

  The girl didn’t say anything. Then she shrugged. Her mouth twisted as she looked over my shoulder, out toward the street. “Looks like you’ll get your chance. There she is now.”

  Five

  ROBIN HARTZELL DIDN’T LIKE HER MOTHER’S BOYFRIEND. She wasn’t crazy about her mother, either.

  Her feelings were clear on her face for a moment as she watched the two adults climb out of the silver van that had just pulled up to the curb, its shiny finish gleaming despite the fading light of evening. I left the van in the periphery of my vision and watched as Robin masked those feelings with smooth blankness. She reached to her right and flicked on the exterior light, creating a circle of harsh yellow glare. Then she opened the screen door and stepped out onto the little square of concrete that served as a front porch.

  I moved my eyes away from the teenage girl, waiting in watchful silence, and looked down the sidewalk. The woman walked slowly toward the house. The man was at her side, his arm draped protectively around her shoulder. As they came closer I took a good look at both of them.

  Carol Hartzell was a few years older than my thirty-four years. Beyond her coloring, I didn’t see much resemblance to her brother. She had his slender frame, but it was dwarfed by the slacks and blouse she wore, a nondescript blue and white seersucker that looked several sizes too big for her. Where Rob’s brown hair had been curly, hers was lank, falling to her shoulders. His eyes had been lively and animated, Carol’s were dull. She looked like a woman defeated by life, over and over, until she didn’t have strength for one more return engagement.

  She leaned into the man’s embrace, as though he were her lifeline. Leon Gomes was fortyish and thickset, his bulky torso clad in dark brown slacks and a short-sleeved shirt of lighter brown, with something embroidered just above the left pocket flap. He had a beeper attached to his belt. A well-trimmed mustache bisected his square face. His black hair was cropped short, but this didn’t disguise the fact that it was thinning.

  He seemed very protective of Carol, yet there was something possessive in his manner as he led her up onto the porch. She stumbled as the edge of one sandal caught on the concrete step. He caught her and half carried her into the house. Robin’s eyes were still carefully blank, but Doug looked worried, his face suddenly young and unprotected as he stared at his mother.

  I seized the moment and followed them inside the house, into a rectangular living room with green shag carpet that had seen better days. A hallway to my left led to the bedrooms and bathroom. A counter directly in front of me separated the living room from a big kitchen furnished with harvest-gold appliances and an oval dining table. I saw a sliding glass door leading to the backyard. On the wall to the right of this was another door. From its placement, I guessed it led to the garage at the side of the house.

  The sofa on the wall immediately to my left was brown and gold plaid, as was the chair near the front window. A low rectangular coffee table made of some dark wood stood in, front of the sofa, which faced a large-screen TV on the opposite wall. A shelf next to this held the CD player, which was still blaring out cacophonous music.

  Leon Gomes settled Carol onto the sofa, then straightened. At this distance I could see the embroidery above his pocket, two words in dark blue. I’d seen the words before. Bates Best, the brand name for foods processed by Bates Inc. So Leon worked for the same company Rob had.

  Call it a hunch, but suddenly I didn’t want Leon to know why I was here.

  He didn’t seem to notice me, at least not at first. Instead a frown furrowed his face as his eyes swept over both teenagers. He barked orders at them.

  “Robin, get your mother something to drink. Doug, turn off that crap.
Can’t you see your mother’s upset?”

  Robin’s mouth tightened rebelliously and her brown eyes flashed, but she didn’t say anything. She sidestepped Leon and moved toward the kitchen. Doug scurried over to the CD player and hit a button. The music stopped in midcrash and was replaced by the fainter background noise of traffic a few blocks away, and the sound of a BART train moving along the nearby track.

  Leon noticed I was there. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I heard about Rob,” I said. “I came to see Carol.”

  “How’d you hear about it?” He eyed me suspiciously. “Hasn’t been in the paper yet.”

  “Maybe she heard about it on the radio. After all, it happened last night.” Robin had returned from the kitchen, carrying a plastic tumbler full of water. She thrust it at her mother. When Carol didn’t reach for it, Robin set the glass down on a square cork coaster and moved away, standing near the counter with her arms folded across her chest.

  Leon glared at her and picked up the glass. He sat down next to Carol and held the glass out to her. “Here, babe, drink some of this,” he said, his tone coaxing her.

  She’d been staring at the TV but not really seeing anything. Now she raised her eyes to Leon’s face. The skin around them was red, as though she’d been crying. She took the glass obediently, sipped some water, then held the glass cradled in her lap. She sighed, a despairing gust of air, then spoke, her voice thin and tremulous. “Oh, God, I can’t believe he’s gone. Why would he do such a thing?”

  She thought her brother had committed suicide.

  This reaction didn’t surprise me, when I recalled what the Hartzell kids had said earlier, reporting Leon’s theory that Rob jumped out that window. Why did Carol Hartzell think her brother killed himself? Had the idea been planted in her head by her boyfriend? Why did he believe Rob’s death was suicide?

  “You think Rob jumped?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

  “What the hell else could have happened?” Leon growled at me.

  “The cops said he fell,” Doug offered. “Maybe it was an accident.”

  “Maybe he was pushed.” Robin’s voice was dry and toneless.

  “That’s nonsense.” Leon turned argumentative, as though he wasn’t used to tolerating any other opinion but his own. “That’s crazy.”

  “It’s no more crazy than the idea of Uncle Rob killing himself,” Robin declared stubbornly. “Why would he do something like that?”

  “I don’t know why. Who knows why people do things like that?” Leon glared at her as though that settled it, but I got the distinct feeling Leon had his own theory as to why Rob would commit suicide.

  I stared back mildly, unimpressed with his macho act. Even though he lived here, I found myself wishing he’d leave so I could talk with Carol. Unfortunately he looked like he was settling in for the evening, determined to give his lady all the moral support she could stand, and more.

  But luck was a lady tonight. Leon’s beeper went off.

  “Damn,” he said, reaching for it. He squinted at the readout and got to his feet. “That’s the plant. It’s one damn thing after another.” He strode toward the kitchen counter and grabbed a cordless phone, punching in some numbers. After a onesided conversation in low growls flavored by the occasional expletive, he punched the button that terminated the connection and slammed the phone down on the counter. He crossed the room to the sofa, placing a hand on Carol’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, babe, I’ve gotta go. Crisis at the plant. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then banged out the screen door. A moment later I heard the squeal of his engine as the van peeled away from the curb.

  “Don’t hurry back.” Robin’s words were tart, her eyes narrowed in contempt as she stared out at the departing van.

  “Robin,” her mother admonished, “is that any way to talk about Leon?”

  “It’s the only way.” Robin now turned her gaze on her mother. Her brother backed away, then slumped into the chair near the window, preferring to remain on the sidelines of this particular battle.

  “Leon works at Bates, like Rob did?” I asked.

  Carol sighed deeply, then set the glass on the coaster. She looked at me, registering my presence for the first time. “Yes, he’s manager of the dairy plant in Oakland. I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “My name is Jeri Howard,” I said. “I was... acquainted with your brother. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Tears welled up in Carol’s eyes. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him. Our parents died about ten years ago, and all we had left was each other. I can’t believe he’s gone. When those detectives came to the door this afternoon, I just lost it.”

  I sat down next to her on the sofa. “Do you really think Rob killed himself?” She winced at the words. “You said just now that you couldn’t think of any reason why he would do such a thing. Rob seemed so well-adjusted, normal, as though there wasn’t anything bad going on in his life. I suppose if the police had found a note...”

  Carol’s mouth turned down in a frown. “They didn’t. I mean, that detective who was here this afternoon didn’t say anything about a note. I called Leon as soon as I found out, and he came right over from the plant. Leon said he must have jumped.”

  “Why would Leon think that?” I asked.

  Carol avoided my question. “Rob could have fallen.” She looked at me eagerly, as though grasping for some other solution besides suicide. “He was on the fifth floor, and the windows in that building are awfully big, and they don’t have screens. It was warm last night. Maybe he had the window wide open and he stumbled and...” She nodded. “He could have fallen.”

  Or maybe he was pushed.

  I glanced over at Robin, still standing by the counter, and read the same thought in her eyes. That kid knows something, I thought, moving her to the top of the list of people I wanted to interview. I had a feeling she knew—and saw—more than her mother did.

  “Had something happened recently, that might have upset Rob?” I asked.

  “He broke up with a girl, a couple of months ago. What was her name, Robin?”

  “Diana Palmer,” Robin said tersely.

  “Yes, Diana. But he didn’t seem upset. I mean, they weren’t serious. Were they?”

  “They were going to get married.” Robin’s voice took on a withering scorn.

  “What?” Carol said. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it. How did you know that?”

  “He told me.”

  “Oh, dear—” Carol stopped. “Maybe that’s why—” She stopped again, then looked at me and changed the subject. “Were you a friend of Rob’s, from work?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell her I was a private investigator. Whatever I told her would go straight into Leon’s ears. And for some reason I hadn’t yet determined, I didn’t trust the guy.

  Robin threw me an out. “Are you hungry, Mom?”

  “Why, yes, just a little bit.” Carol looked past me at Doug, still slumped in the chair near the window. “Did you kids have dinner?”

  Doug reverted to his earlier scintillating conversation. “Yeah.”

  “We ordered pizza,” Robin said, becoming a bit more solicitous of her mother. “There’s still some left. Do you want me to heat up a piece for you?”

  “I’ll do it.” Carol got to her feet. So did I. She looked at me, still confused about why I was there.

  I edged toward the door. “I’ll check with you about funeral services.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Robin told me, crossing the living room.

  Six

  ROBIN HARTZELL FOLLOWED ME OUT THE FRONT DOOR. By now it was after eight, the darkness pierced by lights from the houses across the street. She didn’t say anything until we’d reached my Toyota, parked near the corner, at the edge of a pool of light spilling from a nearby streetlamp. I pulled my key from my purse, but I took my time, in no hurry to unlock the driver’s s
ide door. Robin circled my car, then slouched against the hood.

  “Who are you, really?” she asked.

  “A private investigator.” I took one of my business cards from my purse and handed it to her.

  She drifted into the light and glanced at the card. Then she stuck it into the pocket of her shorts and moved into the shadow. “So what are you investigating? Does this have something to do with my uncle?”

  “He came to see me Wednesday. He wanted me to look into something. But we hadn’t gotten to the details by the time he died.”

  “You think he was murdered?” she asked.

  I thought about the threatening note, and those voices his neighbor heard last night, just before Rob Lawter went out the window.

  “It’s possible.” It was more than possible.

  Evidently Robin felt that way, too, since she’d challenged the assumptions that Rob had fallen or committed suicide. She straightened, moved close enough so that I could see her face, and folded her arms across her chest, with a determined set to her jaw. “Okay, I want you to find out who killed him. I have some money put away for college. I can pay you with that.”

  I waved away the suggestion. “Thanks, Robin. But save your money for school. Your uncle already paid me.”

  It would take more than words to convince her. Her mouth tightened. “But I have to do something. I can’t just leave it there and have jerks like Leon running around saying my uncle killed himself. He’s even got Mom believing it.”

  “Why does Leon think Rob killed himself?”

  Robin snorted derisively. I was about to get an earful of how the girl felt about her mother’s boyfriend. “Leon thinks Rob was gay. He’s spouting some bullshit scenario that Rob killed himself because of that, like maybe he had AIDS, or maybe Diana found out Rob was gay and broke up with him.”