Cliff Hanger

by Mary Feliz

  I held up my hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Or heaven forbid, scare ourselves. Before we get in too deep, I want to talk about what I can do and what I can’t. And what your expectations are. I may not be the type of assistance you need right now, but I can help you figure that out pretty quickly.”

  “I’m still not sure an arsonist or a bulldozer isn’t what I really need,” Renée said. “My priorities—on this project at least—are to figure out what’s here and prepare a board presentation that will secure vastly increased funding to address long-deferred maintenance.”

  “I can help with all of that,” I said. “And get this paperwork condensed, sorted, and organized for off-site archival storage or more efficient retrieval. Honestly, the way things look in here right now, it would take you so long to locate a document that you might as well shred your paperwork instead of filing it.”

  I typed some quick notes, telling Renée that I’d forward them to her later. “What I’d like to do first thing tomorrow is phone the resort’s lawyer, accountant, and insurance company, and look over the homeowners’ association by-laws. Many of your records may already be stored offsite. In that case, there’s no need to save papers that the association is paying other professionals to archive. I also want to verify what each of those entities requires you to have on hand. Unless you already know?”

  Renée shook her head and tapped a well-worn yellow pad. “I’ve just started taking notes on all of that,” she said, running her hand through her hair. “I’m good at my job, and this is the third small-business office I’ve signed on to organize and turn around. But it’s a daunting challenge.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “How ‘bout we say I’ll stay for a week and we’ll reassess? By then we both should know a great deal more about what we’re working with, where you stand with the kids, and whether you want to dig in or run for the hills.”

  Renée smiled, looking at least five years younger, and held out her hand to shake mine, but then looked at her dusty fingers and drew them back. “I’m sorry. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes, and I’m already covered with dust. It’s revolting.”

  But before I could summon a tactful response, the phone rang. Renée picked up the receiver. “Oh, Vik, I’m so sorry,” she said. After listening for a moment, she added. “Of course. She’s here with me now. We’ll be right over. Do you need to take off?” She held the handset in front of her, stared at it, and shrugged. “He hung up.”

  I raised my eyebrows in question.

  “It’s the Petersons,” Renée said. “Jake’s parents. And Vik’s, er, well, it’s complicated. They’re here with the sheriff and want to talk to us and your boys.”

  Sheriff? I froze. Two days ago, I wouldn’t have thought anything of a visit from law enforcement, since we had good family friends at all levels of our local police force at home in Orchard View. But today, not twelve hours since the ultralight crash, my fears went straight to the direst of circumstances.

  “Sheriff?” I said it aloud this time. “Are Brian and David okay? I need to text them.” I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen. Beads of sweat prickled my scalp even as I shivered and the room started to sway. I’m not prone to panic attacks, but my reaction seemed over the top, even to me. Apparently, the injury and death of a young person can be unsettling in far more ways that I had imagined.

  “It’s okay, Maggie. Everything is okay,” said Renée.

  The boys responded quickly.

  “What’s up?” David replied. I explained that the sheriff and Jake’s parents were in the gatehouse, asking for us. The boys agreed to meet us there.

  * * * *

  Everyone looked up when our entourage entered. Belle bounded forward, wagging her tail, and knocked a pile of brochures off the coffee table. The tension in the room made the air seem to crackle. An ashen-faced couple in their late fifties sat on the edge of a worn sofa. They held thick pottery mugs, while a man in a sheriff’s uniform stood splay-legged in front of them with a somber expression and his hat in his hand. His posture and position seemed to hold the couple in place. The woman glared at the mug in her hand, then scowled at the sheriff.

  Vik Peterson came out from behind the desk. “Maggie, Brian, and David McDonald, these are my…parents. Dot and Bill Peterson. And the sheriff, Nathan Sanchez.

  The couple stood and tried to smile. Bill Peterson held out his hand and David shook it. “Vik is my brother’s son,” the man said. “But emotionally, legally, and every which way, he’s ours and we’re his. Jake was his cousin, but they were like brothers.”

  Dot Peterson reached into her pocket for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. She started to speak and then waved her hand in front of her face and left the room. Vik followed her.

  “Have a seat,” the sheriff said, then frowned at the lack of available seating.

  Vik returned from a back room carrying a stack of metal banquet chairs. He put it down and, detaching one at a time, invited us all to sit. He cupped his fist and made a gesture as though he was drinking from a mug. “Tea, Maggie?”

  I shook my head and turned to Mr. Peterson. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “We wanted to thank you and your boys for helping Jake yesterday. The sheriff here tells us that you did everything you could.”

  The boys nodded and looked uncomfortable, unsure how to respond in a situation that had few rules and no right answers. “We tried,” Brian said. “Sorry…”

  An extended awkward silence ensued and the sheriff stepped forward, rescuing everyone. “The Petersons wanted to know if Jake said anything to you boys when you were with him. I’m interested too.”

  “Like, a police interview?” David asked.

  The sheriff brushed non-existent dust from his pant leg. “Not at all. The medical team says you both helped Jake. We just want to know more about what happened, and I thought you two could help.”

  Brian sat, and then reached out to grab the back of David’s T-shirt and pull him into the chair next to him.

  Mr. Peterson sat and leaned forward. “Our son was meticulous about maintenance and safety, so it’s hard for us to understand how he crashed. Did you see it happen?”

  David stared at the ground. “I don’t know much about ultralights,” he began. “It was super windy up on the cliff.” He looked up and then lifted his palm, using it to demonstrate the unsteady movement of the aircraft. “It was wobbling, back and forth, up and down. Is that normal?”

  Vik answered too quickly and too loudly, “Not for Jake. He was always in control.” His face reddened and he looked away. When he spoke again his voice was lower, slower, and softer. “Something was wrong.”

  “Did my boy say anything?” asked Dot as she returned from the back, still clutching her tissue.

  Brian and David stared at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. “Something like ‘mays prop bad check,’” David finally said. “Does that mean anything?”

  Brian cleared his throat. “It could have been ‘prop bad check mays.’ Or something else. He repeated it several times, but it wasn’t clear, and then he passed out.”

  “Could something have been wrong with his propeller?” I asked. “Or a car payment for last month?” If Jake had known how badly injured he was, would he have wanted to get his finances in order? Was that something young adults thought about?

  Dot and Bill looked stricken, and I realized I’d overstepped. “Sorry, your son’s finances aren’t any of my business.”

  “It’s not that,” Dot said. “Like Bill said, Jake is really careful with his safety checks. No aircraft he worked on has ever had a problem. If something was wrong with the propeller, he’d have discovered it before he took off. He wouldn’t have flown until it was fixed.”

  “So you think something bad happened mid-flight to either the ultralight or to Jake that cause
d the crash?” I asked.

  Bill reached for his wife’s hand. “None of this makes much sense,” he said. “We keep expecting him to walk in, apologizing for worrying us.”

  The sheriff held out his arm, like a theater usher, but I wasn’t sure whether he was encouraging the Petersons to leave or excusing my family from further questions. “Let’s wait for the experts to weigh in. The National Transportation Safety Board will be looking into it, and they’ll be able to tell us more,” he said. “Jake’s ultralight is on its way to their lab at the San Jose airport.” He turned to the boys. “If you two remember anything else Jake said or did, please let me know.” He handed each of them a card. “Dot, Bill, I’ll see you out. Let’s allow these folks to get on with their day.”

  Bill Peterson shook the boys’ hands again and thanked them. The boys and I nodded somberly, but said nothing.

  As soon as the couple had gone, Brian and David sank onto the sofa. David summed up their feelings in two words. “That sucked,” he said.

  Brian’s concern was more practical. “Did you know NTSB investigated little stuff? Are they really interested in tiny crashes? Is an ultralight even technically a plane?”

  “Let’s help Vik put these chairs away,” I said, wanting to give the boys something physical to do to distract them from their pain. I gathered up the tea mugs while the boys stacked the chairs and moved them back into the storage room.

  “That’s weird, what the Petersons were saying,” David said. “That Jake was such a good pilot and safety conscious and all. I mean, accidents happen when you don’t know what you’re doing, or you rush to get ready, right? Sounds like Jake really knew his stuff.”

  “Sometimes, accidents are just accidents,” I said, grabbing Belle’s leash to keep her from “helping” the boys.

  “They’re having a rough time,” Vik said. “They want someone or something to blame. Me too. It’s messed up. Jake has cancelled flights before because conditions were bad or he wanted to fix the rig.”

  “Was he flying for fun?” I asked. “Was the ultralight a hobby?”

  Vik shook his head. “It started out that way. He’s had the flying bug his whole life, and built the ultralight as a project with Burt Mason, a machinist who’s an old friend of my dad’s. Growing up, Jake spent as much time at Burt’s shop as he did at our house.”

  “Mason?” I asked. “You boys said one of the words Jake muttered was May’s. Could Jake have been trying to say his name?”

  Vik scratched the back of his neck and wrinkled his nose. “We’ll probably never know,” he said. “And it’s going to drive my mother crazy. She needs an answer for everything. Loose ends nag at her until she knows exactly what happened.”

  “I know the feeling.” I wasn’t sure I’d said it aloud, until I saw Brian and David nodding.

  “We can figure this out, right, Mom?” Brian said. “I want to know what happened to Jake too. Why’d he have to die? That doctor said he was stable, and like, a few minutes later, he was dead. How does that happen? I mean, I’d get it if he was old or sick or weak, but he wasn’t, was he?”

  I turned to Vic. “Did your brother have some kind of underlying illness that would explain his sudden turn for the worse?”

  “You were at the hospital?” Vik asked. “Talking to my brother’s doctor? Why?” Before we could answer, Vik waved his hands as though he was erasing an imaginary white board. “Never mind. I wonder if something could have happened there. They’ve had staffing issues, trying to keep costs down and stay competitive. I wonder if they cut corners with his care?” He dashed back behind the desk and picked up the phone. “I got to call my mom. She has to look into this.”

  David looked gray and sick, and Brian shivered. “You mean you think the hospital killed him?” Brian asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “But why? Does that even happen in real life? It sounds like a bad TV doctor show.”

  Vik looked up from the phone console where he’d punched in numbers as though he were trying to put his fingers through the machine. His eyes blinked rapidly and he bit his lip. “They can’t get away with this,” he said.

  Renée hustled us out of the office, but stayed behind to talk to Vik. Through the glass door panels, we could see her gesturing but we couldn’t hear the words.

  Vik slammed down the phone, firmed his jaw, grabbed his hoodie off the back of the desk chair, and stomped out the far door to the parking lot. He jumped into an ancient compact car with a bad muffler and roared off in a cloud of smoke.

  Chapter 6

  Having trouble removing sand from skin? Sprinkle baby powder over the sandy area. The powder absorbs moisture making it easier (and less abrasive) to brush the sand away.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Tuesday, June 18, Late Morning

  Before Renée could join us outside, Sheriff Nate entered the gatehouse through the door on the opposite side of the central hallway—the same door through which Vik had stormed off. Renée waved us back inside.

  The phone rang and Renée rushed to answer it. “I’m going to have to staff the desk here until I can get someone in Vik’s place,” she said as soon as she’d wrapped up the call. “I was planning to do that anyway. There’s no reason he needs to be here when his brother has just died. His parents need his support.” The phone rang again. She picked up and answered in a soft voice. Taking a seat at the desk, she disappeared behind the high counter and her words were muffled.

  “There are just a couple of things I want to talk over with you,” Nate said. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “We’re happy to help. But we’re at a bit of a loss. We were at the hospital this morning and Jake’s doctor—” I reached into my pocket, pulled out a card, and read. “Dr. William Bennett.” I handed the card to the sheriff, which he accepted, though I was sure he was already well aware of the doctor’s name and his connection to Jake. In fact, based on what we’d experienced of life in Watsonville so far, everyone in town probably knew that Dr. Bennett had been Jake’s doctor.

  “The family is understandably emotional,” Nate said, weaving the brim of his hat through his fingers. “Dot and Bill are planning to talk to the district attorney.”

  “They want answers,” I said.

  Nate rubbed his chin. “NTSB is pretty adept at finding answers. They have extensive resources. I’ve recommended that the parents leave this up to the experts…” He paused and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “They’ve got other ideas. I’ve tried to talk them out of it.”

  “What are you getting at?” David asked. “Is something wrong?”

  The sheriff wrung his hands. It was one of the few times in my life I’d actually seen someone perform the gesture that had become a cliché for anxious behavior. “They’re convinced that Jake was either murdered or killed by those who didn’t do their jobs properly.”

  “Like the hospital staff?” I asked. “Vik mentioned something about that.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Like your boys.”

  My mouth dropped open and I pulled Brian and David toward me as if to protect them. “Seriously? Why would the boys have killed him? That’s crazy. What are they thinking?”

  “That’s just it,” Nate said. “They’re not thinking. They’re lashing out. I don’t see the DA giving their ideas much credence, but she’ll listen respectfully. And might well conduct an investigation. I wanted to give you a heads up in case you start getting calls for interviews from law enforcement or the news media.”

  “On what grounds?” I asked. “I mean, I get that the Petersons aren’t necessarily rational, but you have to have some idea what they’re thinking—as skewed as their thought processes might be.” I’d always thought of ‘crazed by grief’ as a statement that was exaggerated for effect. But if what the sheriff was saying w
as true, the Petersons were loony tunes.

  The sheriff scoffed. “They claim your boys were untrained and that they fatally injured Jake as they tried to rescue him.”

  “But we called 9-1-1,” Brian protested. “And the rescue guys and that doctor at the hospital all said we did the right thing.”

  “Even Mr. Peterson thanked us,” David added, his face flushed. “Who thanks someone and then takes them to court?”

  The sheriff gestured for everyone to calm down. But I was outraged. “How dare they?” I said. “Their little visit here was just a pretext, wasn’t it? Did they hope the boys would say something incriminating?”

  The sheriff looked even more uncomfortable. “According to the Petersons, they already have.”

  “What?” David said. “How could we have said anything bad? You heard us.” He turned to me, eyes pleading for me to back him up. I put my arm around his shoulder.

  The sheriff checked his watch. “Apparently it’s going to be on the local news station at noon,” he said. “Renée?”

  Renée stood to search the desk for a remote. She found it under a pile of papers I was itching to file away and pointed it toward a plasma television mounted on the wall behind the counter. David’s image appeared on the screen. We’d caught the broadcast in the middle of the story.

  “—no experts. We called in the EMTs and they worked on him. They’re the heroes.” Renée muted the rest of the program as a talking head appeared and the newscast moved on to a story about a warehouse fire in the neighboring town of Salinas.

  I turned to the sheriff. “What’s wrong with that?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I’m guessing it will all blow over quickly as the Petersons work through their grief. You might want to get some legal help for the time being though. Just in case.”

  “A lawyer?” I asked. “Why would we need a lawyer?”

  Renée leaned on the counter. “California has a Good Samaritan law, doesn’t it? Brian and David did the right thing. How can Dot and Bill bring charges against them?”