by Sue Grafton
“Right. The mastermind,” Austin said with a glance at her. “Besides, you look like you’re doing well enough on your own.”
Her reply came off camera. “Party pooper. You’re no fun.”
The time frame shifted, a period of blank tape and then live action again. The camera tracked back to the girl and by the time Fritz reappeared, he’d peeled out of his bathing suit and was swinging it over his head like a stripper. He tossed his Speedo out of frame and she heard Troy guffaw. “Hey, dude. This is awesome. Let’s rock and roll.”
The camera panned. Lauren caught her breath, her heart suddenly pounding, and her posture stiffened with dismay. “Oh lord no,” she said. She put a hand over her mouth, her cheeks burning with shame.
Both boys were naked and fully erect. The girl, Iris, had apparently passed out on the pool table while the boys showed off for each other, egging each other on. Troy was the first to approach the girl, wagging his stiff penis while Fritz sidled up to her and fondled one of her bare breasts. What followed was a full-on sexual assault. They seemed to do anything that occurred to them while the girl lay passive and unresisting. She might have been acting, but Lauren doubted it. The boys flipped her over on her stomach, her bare butt occupying much of the screen. Lauren stared as though hypnotized, grimacing as the tape rolled on. She knew she should shut the machine down, but she still held out the perverse expectation that this was all in good fun. It was tacky and in bad taste, but if the girl was a willing participant, that might make all the difference. From the left of frame, Fritz appeared with an open can of Crisco, which he held aloft, pretending to twist an imaginary mustache like the villain in a melodrama. Fritz held out the can to Troy, who dug his fingers into the white grease. The scene jumped to Troy with his back to the camera as he pumped away at the girl on the pool table.
Lauren covered her mouth as though to repress all sound, shaking her head in horror. Meanwhile, Fritz picked up a pool stick and stuck it in the Crisco, coating the thick wooden handle as he moved toward the girl. Austin Brown’s looking on, so cold and unconcerned, made it all the worse. Lauren pressed the Off button. Hands shaking, she pushed the button that ejected the tape. It popped partway out, the title on the label so ironic in retrospect. She turned the VCR off and sat without moving, trying to collect herself. She felt ill.
Disgusting. It was all disgusting, behavior so vile she could hardly take it in. What was she supposed to do? The two had raped and sexually abused the girl. Hollis would die if he knew. This obscene home movie was more than criminal, it was totally depraved. Her first impulse was to demolish the tape—crush or burn or bury it—but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The tape was evidence of a crime and if she destroyed it, then Fritz and Troy could deny everything and what proof would she have?
The doorbell rang, causing Lauren to jump as adrenaline shot through her. Maybe someone else had given him a ride home and he’d found himself without his house key. She couldn’t let him know she’d seen the tape until she talked to Hollis.
The doorbell rang a second time.
“Just a minute,” she called. Not that anyone on the front porch could hear her.
In a flash, she could see the future stretching out in all its consequences. She and Hollis would have to call the police. Troy’s mother would have to be told. They’d have to protect Iris’s identity, but Lauren wasn’t even sure she’d been aware of what was going on. Had she been drugged? In any case, what would follow? A criminal trial, a civil suit? Fritz in disgrace and themselves mired in ruin? Lauren pictured the repercussions stretching out for years to come.
From the front hall, she heard, “Hello? Mrs. McCabe? It’s me, Sloan.”
Lauren said, “Shit.”
Sloan was one of the many kids who wandered in and out at will. She’d apparently found the front door unlocked, had opened it, and then stuck her head in and called a greeting.
“I’ll be right there!” Lauren called.
In a panic, Lauren went through a quick debate. Take the tape or leave it where it was? She didn’t dare act on her own. She couldn’t make a decision with such profound implications without discussing it with Hollis. They’d always handled the major issues that way. This incident would have to be made public, regardless of the scandal, regardless of penalties that would have to be paid. That she and Hollis would suffer was irrelevant. Fritz could take whatever punishment the law dished out. Neither she nor Hollis would shield him from the outrage and venom he’d have heaped on him when the tape came to light. He deserved every bit of it. And that poor girl? Would she ever be the same?
She left the tape in the machine. There was no time to rewind, but maybe Fritz wouldn’t remember that he’d watched a portion the night before. She wanted to smash the plastic housing, rip out the tape, and cut it in tiny pieces, anything to repudiate the contents. She’d do nothing until Hollis got home and they’d had a chance to confer. At the last minute she remembered her wineglass and snatched it off the end table.
She left Fritz’s room, closing the door behind her, and hurried down the hall, setting the wineglass on a console table as she passed.
Sloan was standing in the foyer, well-mannered enough that having entered the house and announced her presence, she was waiting for Lauren to appear. Lauren could see her big white dog peering in the open door from the porch. Butch was a Great Pyrenees, a good hundred and forty pounds of protectiveness that Sloan took with her everywhere. Sloan knew dogs weren’t allowed in the McCabe house and the dog apparently knew that too, though his exclusion was cause for an eager whimpering in hopes someone would relent.
Lauren said, “Sloan, sweetie. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you knock. What can I do for you?”
“Is Fritz home?”
“He’s not. I was just leaving to pick him up at the club. He and Troy have a tennis lesson.”
Lauren was aware she sounded rattled, but Sloan didn’t seem to notice.
“Would it be all right if I waited?”
“Not today, hon. This isn’t a good time. Ordinarily, it would be fine, but something’s come up. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can always catch him at school.”
“I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“No need. It’s not important. I’ll talk to him on Monday.”
Sloan made no move to leave.
“Is there anything else?”
“No, sorry. I’ll let you go.”
Lauren moved to the door and held it opened, embarrassed to be so pointed in encouraging the girl to go. Sloan gave her a quick smile and retreated to the porch. Lauren closed the door and stood for a moment with her forehead resting against the frame. The nightmare was just beginning and she was already caught in the horror of it.
She grabbed her car keys and proceeded to the garage. She slid into the BMW, turned the key in the ignition, and backed out of the driveway. She did a quick turn onto the street and straightened the steering wheel as she headed toward the club. Half a block down, she passed Sloan, with Butch straining at his leash. Sloan gave her a cheery wave.
Lauren returned the wave halfheartedly in the rearview mirror, as though Sloan might take note of her acknowledgment. Once she’d turned the corner, though Lauren wasn’t aware of it, Sloan turned on her heel with a purpose and walked back to the house.
11
Wednesday, September 20, 1989
Poppy’s stepmother continued down the hall. “Would you like iced tea?”
“If it’s no trouble,” I said. With any meeting, the offer of tea or coffee ensures more time together. If you’re not offered “refreshments,” chances are you’ll be in and out the door in ten minutes or less.
When we reached the kitchen, she paused to speak to the woman who was scouring the sink. “Q, sweetie. Could I ask you to fix us a couple of glasses of iced tea?”
“Q sweetie” was a
white woman in her sixties, wearing a red bandana tied across her head like Cinderella. She had a prominent nose and a pugnacious lower jaw. “Can do,” she said. “Lemon and sugar?”
“That would be nice. We’ll be in the family room.”
We crossed the hall and she showed me into a spacious glassed-in side porch, comfortably done up with rattan furniture. The sturdy cushions were covered in a geometric pattern of black and red. She settled at one end of the couch and I took a seat in the chair adjacent.
“I’m guessing you’re looking for Poppy in relation to Fritz McCabe,” she said. “When I read about his release, I wondered if that unfortunate business would open up old wounds.”
I could have kissed her for saving me the awkward process of getting down to business. “Apparently so. Somebody seems to have it in for him, and his mother asked me to look into it. Do you know Lauren and Hollis?”
“He handles our investments through the wealth management department at our bank,” she replied. “Lauren and I have served together on a number of committees. Both are lovely. What do you mean, someone has it in for Fritz? That sounds ominous.”
“The details are complicated and I really can’t go into it without Lauren’s okay.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t want you to violate a confidence. How does Poppy fit in?”
“I’m hoping she’ll have an insight. Do you know if she’s still in touch with kids she went to school with?”
“I’m sure she is, at least with some. Who have you talked to so far?”
“Iris Lehmann, who wasn’t exactly forthcoming. In truth, this is a fishing expedition. Poppy happened to be next on my list. I take it she’s here in town.”
“She’s in a cottage near the beach.”
As she rattled off the address, I reached in my bag and took out my index cards. She recited the phone number as well. I made a note of the information.
“Will she be home now or does she work?”
“Oh, she’ll be home. She’s self-employed.”
I said, “Ah.” Something in the woman’s tone suggested self-employment, in Poppy’s case, was synonymous with her being a shiftless layabout. “How much do you remember about Sloan Stevens’s death?”
“I read about it in the papers like everyone else. Coverage was extensive, especially during the trial. That’s all we talked about. We were in a state of shock—the whole community. These were good kids. Or so we thought. There’s not a parent alive who didn’t shudder at what happened to that poor girl. My husband was horrified. He’d known her all her life.”
“What about you? Did you know her?”
“I knew who she was. I wasn’t personally acquainted with the family.”
“Did you have children at Climp?”
“My son graduated the year before. I should probably mention Sherman’s first wife, Emmie, walked out on him about that time, leaving him to deal with the aftermath on his own.”
“That must have been hard on Poppy.”
“She shut right down. Refused to talk about any of it. Still won’t.”
“You’re referring to the murder or her mother leaving?”
“I’m not sure she can separate the two. She’d been suspended from school because of a cheating incident and that was upheaval enough. Sloan’s death was devastating; a blight on so many lives. Of the young people involved, none of them have turned out well. One way or another, they’ve all been marked by the tragedy.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” I said. “I understand Austin Brown is still at large.”
“It’s hard to imagine him as a fugitive. I won’t say I’m sympathetic, but he thought he was going to be a prominent attorney like everyone else in his family and where is he today?” Her question was meant to be rhetorical, but she paused before she went on. “Fritz, as you know, spent the last eight years in prison, getting into trouble and suffering the consequences. Bayard Montgomery doesn’t work. In fact, he doesn’t do much of anything. His father left him a fortune, which has insulated him from the necessity for a job. When you’re not obliged to support yourself, you’re essentially rudderless. Then there’s Iris, who hasn’t amounted to a hill of beans. I don’t know about Troy.”
“He’s an auto mechanic.”
“Supporting my point,” she said. “My former husband was an estate attorney and when Troy’s father died, he did what he could to salvage the situation. The Rademakers were good Catholics and of the five boys, Troy was the last one at home. His father was a draftsman with an architectural firm. He died of a sudden heart attack, fifty-two years old, with mortgage insurance, but not much else. Mary Frances was able to pay off the house and she did what she could. Troy’s brothers had all finished college by then and Troy understood he was on his own. I think that’s why he was tempted to cheat, to make sure he could keep his grades up, protecting his scholarship. When the scandal erupted at Climp, that was the end of that. Without financial aid, he had no chance for a decent education. Of course, the years in prison didn’t help his cause. A good mechanic is a treasure, but I’m sure Troy had a different vision of his future.”
“What about Poppy?”
Loretta waved a hand. “She’s a mess. It might sound harsh, but it’s the truth. Both of her sisters are high-achievement types. Adrienne’s a pediatrician and Cary does R and D for Pfizer pharmaceuticals. That’s research and development.”
“Got it,” I said.
“They both knew from an early age what they wanted to do in life and they went after their goals with a vengeance. Poppy was Emmie’s midlife surprise. Sherman would be the first to tell you they hadn’t planned on a third child. As a result, Poppy had it tougher than the other two. The way he tells it, the older girls were self-motivated and they competed to see which one of them could outshine the other. Poppy came along eight years later and got the short end of the stick. I guess there was only so much brainpower to go around. He and Emmie watched her struggle through elementary school and junior high. It was painful, but there wasn’t much they could do to help. Tutors, of course, and summer school was inevitable since she usually fell short in at least one class during the academic year. She may have a learning disability that was never diagnosed.”
“Her sisters went to Climp?”
“Oh, yes. No question about that. Sherman and Emmie argued about sending Poppy, but she always felt she was being slighted, so they didn’t dare break the tradition when it came to her. She should have done well at Climp. Small class sizes, a teaching staff that was top drawer. It’s not like she didn’t try. She just couldn’t keep up. In my opinion, though no one ever asks of course, Poppy’s a spoiled brat. She’s terribly defensive and she’s so glum.”
I laughed at the unexpected term. “Glum?”
“Always down at the mouth. Nothing goes right for her. She has the same competitive streak as her older sisters, but while they’re striving to get ahead, using their energy to accomplish something in the world, Poppy’s focus is on them. Whatever they have, she feels she should have the same thing, earned or otherwise.”
“Do you get along with her?”
“Not at all. I’m surprised you’d ask. If I liked the girl, I wouldn’t be saying half the things I’ve said. She takes shameless advantage of her father, which means that he and I do battle every time something comes up. Not that I have much say in the matter. In some ways, I have her best interests at heart; more so than he does, at any rate. He doesn’t see it that way. He’s busy trying to assuage his guilt because she’s had such a hard time in life. In my view, she brings her problems on herself, but she’s convinced it’s all a conspiracy. Half the time she persuades him it’s his fault.”
“Do you know Sloan’s mother? I’m wondering how she fared in all of this.”
“I know her, but not well. She had a drinking problem in those days, but after Sloan was killed, she never touche
d another drop. That’s the only good that’s ever come out of it.”
“I’ve been thinking I should talk to her, but I don’t want to intrude.”
“No worries on that score. Margaret isn’t shy when it comes to Sloan. Her daughter is all she talks about.”
“Are there other children?”
“Two boys from Paul Seay’s first marriage. Both are still around as far as I know. A year after Sloan died, Margaret and Paul divorced. The boys were of an age where they needed their father’s influence, so they elected to live with him. I don’t know what his first wife thought about it, but apparently, there was no bad blood. The older one in particular adored Sloan. I understand he looks after Margaret, who really doesn’t have any other friends.
“Tell her you’re writing an article. She’s always phoning journalists, trying to keep the story in the public eye. She’s convinced that one of these days someone will read about Sloan’s death and blow the whistle on Austin Brown, wherever he might be.”
I pumped her for information for as long as I dared and then returned to my car with Poppy’s address in hand. I took the back way out of Horton Ravine, using the road that ran along the bluff and then exited through the rear gates. From there, I followed the road down the hill and on to Ludlow Beach. Santa Teresa City College was planted on the hillside opposite, with imposing views of the Pacific Ocean. I drove another block and a half, made a left turn, and then a right onto her street.
Poppy lived in a small board-and-batten cottage, one of eight forming a U-shape that enclosed a gracious swath of lawn. There were a number of these small rental properties in Santa Teresa—mini-communities that shared common ground. Though small, each of the structures boasted two bedrooms, a living room with a working fireplace, a kitchen, and one bathroom. The floors were hardwood and there were shutters at the windows, which also sported flower boxes planted with an array of marigolds. I knew all of this because one of the units was available to rent and the sign posted out front detailed the amenities.
