The baby was pronounced “healthy.”
Could this be Blair Kendrick’s baby? It had to be. Karissa got up from the computer and paced the floor. Someone is watching me. There’s a guardian angel at work here. I’m being manipulated. Why else would I be sent this material? Blair Kendrick is dead, so who else could it be? Gregory Webster? Blair’s baby, now grown, in her early seventies? Did the rare coins come from the same person? What is going on here?
She looked at the time and saw that it wasn’t quite five o’clock. A lot had happened since that insane lunch with Marcello at Musso & Frank’s!
Back at her computer, she found the orphanage online and verified that it was still in Santa Barbara. She then looked up the Wasco post office, dialed the number, and asked to speak to a supervisor. When a man got on the phone, he sounded annoyed.
“This is Stevens, can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m calling from Los Angeles. Is it possible to find out who owns a specific P.O. Box there in Wasco?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I received some mail, and the return address is just a post office box in Wasco. I’d like to know, uhm, who I’m doing business with.”
“Lady, we can’t give out that information.”
Of course they can’t.
“Even if it’s a matter of money? What if they’re owed a good deal of money?”
“Ma’am, I still can’t do it except under special circumstances, like harassment or child pornography or something else criminal. Or if the person is deceased, or any number of things, but I can’t just give it out. You might need a court order. Why don’t you come in to the post office in person?”
“I might do that. Thank you.”
It figured that they’d honor the privacy of a P.O. box owner. Now the question was, after a night’s sleep—should she drive first to Santa Barbara or go straight to Wasco?
37
THE MOVIE
The motion picture shifts to a daytime exterior shot of Westwood Village Memorial Cemetery. A casket is lowered into the ground.
The voice-over relates, “The plan worked. The police thought Malena Mengarelli’s body was mine. We were roughly the same build, and she was wearing my signature necklace. She had apparently regained consciousness as the flames overtook her and crawled out of the car and died on the highway where they found her. The studio paid for a quick and unpublicized burial. Her tombstone bears my name. I later learned that the woman was a killer who worked for the Las Vegas mob. They certainly weren’t going to tell the police the identity of the corpse in the grave.”
Cut to a daytime exterior shot of Our Lady of Hope Children’s Home in Santa Barbara. A montage depicts nuns with children playing in the schoolyard, nuns watching over babies in a nursery, and the Mother Superior in an office checking records.
The voice-over continues, “After that horrific incident in the Hollywood Hills, my friend Ray Webster helped me hide. I heard through the grapevine that Buddy Franco had survived the nightmare at the studio. He essentially left Los Angeles and disappeared, leaving a wife and daughter. No one knew where he was, but I was afraid he’d be looking for me. I was shuffled between several of Ray’s musician friends, but eventually I went to Santa Barbara to search for my daughter.”
The camera pulls back from the outdoor playground and pans across streets and up to an overlooking hill. A dark 1947 Chrysler Windsor sits at a curb. Blair, now with dark hair and wearing a scarf and sunglasses, sits in the driver’s seat. She holds binoculars and is watching the orphanage.
“I dyed my hair brown and did my best to change my appearance. I used Eldon Hirsch’s coin collection to provide myself with a means to live. I’d sell one coin at a time, and that would last me quite a while. Finding dealers who were trustworthy was difficult, but I did it. I couldn’t have word get back to the mob that those coins were turning up. I lived in a run-down boardinghouse, and every day I’d wait until Sister Agnes—I found out her name—brought baby Jane outside for some fresh air. Jane, for Jane Doe. That’s what the orphanage called her. Not as good as Suzanne, but I liked it.”
Cross-fade to a shot of a black couple leaving the orphanage. The woman is holding a baby. The man shakes hands with the Mother Superior as they say goodbye.
“And then … about three months after Jane’s arrival at the orphanage, she was adopted by a nice Negro family that lived in Phoenix, Arizona. So that was my next destination. As much as I wanted to make contact with them, I was afraid my background—my existence—would be discovered.”
A POV shot of what Blair sees through the binoculars pans over to the street. Parked across from the orphanage is a black Cadillac. Buddy Franco—now bald and sporting a mustache—and another man sit in the car, watching.
“You see, I soon learned that Buddy Franco had survived my gunshot and had changed his appearance. He, too, was watching the movements of my daughter, probably hoping I would show up. He was correct. I showed up, all right, though at a distance. I had to be very careful as the months—and years—crept by … until it was 1952.”
The Good Word Baptist Church catered to Negroes, but the congregation held a few specks of white among the many black faces in attendance one Sunday morning. The folks were dressed in their best suits and dresses, despite the lack of an air conditioner and the temperature outside of ninety-four degrees Fahrenheit. And it wasn’t summer yet.
Blair sat in a pew toward the back of the sanctuary, near the aisle in case she needed to make a fast escape. She didn’t want to get overconfident. Although she had not seen any signs of Buddy Franco or his minions in months, Blair was smart enough to know that they could appear at any time.
She enjoyed the gospel choir in the church. It made her feel good. The music, with its similar roots to jazz, reminded her of her time with Hank. Blair didn’t take much stock in the other parts of churchgoing. She had long relegated her soul to a destiny of misfortune. There were times when she was compelled to walk up the center aisle to the front of the church and confess her sins. “I am a murderer,” she imagined herself saying in front of the families in attendance. But she also thought, fitfully and hopefully, that if they knew the circumstances behind the killing, somehow they wouldn’t hold it against her.
It’s no use telling yourself that it was justified, Blair thought. You’ve made your bed and now you must lie in it. But enough with the self-pity! Focus on why you came this morning!
Blair gazed toward the row of pews in the front. A family of three sat in the fourth row closest to the pulpit. The man, a car mechanic by trade, had his arm on the back of the pew, indicating that the pretty housewife and the nearly three-year-old girl sitting beside him were under his protection. They seemed to be happy. Blair had moved to Phoenix to be near her daughter and to watch her grow. Jane was a bubbly child. Every time Blair saw her, she was laughing at something. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Jane cry.
Blair began attending their church after a year of watching and waiting. It had taken her that long to make sure Franco wasn’t on to her. She had seen him several times walking with a cane, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Blair knew that Buddy Franco had a contract out on her, and he would stop at nothing to find her. Luckily, he hadn’t spotted her so far.
One day, she watched him from afar as he rang the bell and entered Jane’s home. Blair didn’t know what he’d told the adoptive parents. Surely, they must have wondered why this strange man was visiting them and asking questions. Nevertheless, he had left them alone and driven away. That was when Blair knew that she could never speak to Jane or her family. She had been hoping that there might come a time when she could casually approach them as a fellow church member, introduce herself by her new name—Penny Miller—and perhaps be friends.
Too risky.
Blair had to be content with just being in proximity to her beautiful little girl, but not interacting with her. After all, it wasn’t only Blair’s life that was at stake. Her presen
ce could place little Jane and her loving parents in jeopardy.
The Tumbleweed Truck Stop was located just outside of city limits on Highway 60. It consisted of gas pumps, a convenience store, and a small café, in three separate buildings. The black family who ran the establishment lived in a house—a shack, really—that was part of the café. The business barely survived, as most travelers stopped closer in to the city. It was also apparent that the Tumbleweed catered mostly to Negroes; somehow, drivers on the road could tell the establishment was not often frequented by whites.
Blair didn’t need to work. The money from selling the coins was supporting her just fine. But she toiled in the truck stop convenience store for something to do so that she wouldn’t go mad from boredom. The family who owned the truck stop had befriended her at church, so she’d thought, why not? As the place was situated out of town and not too far from Jane’s home, it suited her. The apartment building where she lived was only a mile away, too. It seemed to be out of the way and safe.
She had just finished restocking the Hershey candy bars in the rack near the cash register, so she took a moment to wipe the sweat off her face with a cloth and drink some water. It was terribly hot in Phoenix. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to it.
It was always something of a novelty when the bell rang, triggered by a car running over the black rubber hose that stretched across the pavement by the gas pumps. Blair didn’t need to do anything; Leroy would take care of the customer and fill up the car. Nevertheless, she always looked out the glass door to see who might be pulling into the remote rest stop. The sight of an old green Ford coupe that was on its last legs made her smile. The two Negro men heading her way were like angels from heaven.
She stepped outside to greet them, holding out her arms. “Ray! Bobop! How lovely to see you!”
They both gave her warm hugs, even though a black man embracing a white woman in 1952 was something for which they could get in trouble in Arizona. Luckily, there were no white locals around.
“What a surprise,” she said. “Come on inside, I’ll buy you a Coke.” She looked back at the car. “I can’t believe that old thing is still running, Bobop.”
“I can’t either, Miss Blair.”
Ray jerked his head at him. “Shh!” he whispered. “Her name is Penny now.”
“Oh, right, sorry, uh, Miss Penny.”
Blair laughed. “It’s all right, no one can hear you out here where Jesus lost his sandals.”
She led them into the store and purchased three bottles of soda from the vending machine. They stood in the path of the standing electric fan that blew hot air through the small store, enjoying their drinks. At least it was a breeze that moved.
“How are things in LA?” she asked.
“Well, uh, Penny,” Ray began. “I have some news for you, and it’s not very nice news at that.”
“Oh?”
Bobop looked down. He seemed to be glad it wasn’t him who had to tell her.
“Well? What is it?”
Ray took a breath and spoke. “Some people found a body in the Mojave Desert between LA and Las Vegas. A skeleton. The police won’t do nothing about it. They won’t investigate it or try to find out what happened. To them it’s just some sorry skeleton in the desert.”
“What are you telling me?” she asked, starting to tremble.
“It’s Hank.”
She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”
“He was shot in the head. Who knows what else was done to him? He was left out there to rot.”
Blair turned away to face the desert landscape outside the door. She couldn’t hold back the tears. “How do you know it’s him?”
“Regina had a lawyer working for her who was trying to find out what happened to Hank. He was able to get word about the discovery of the body from a policeman contact he knew. Anyway, this was on the finger of the dead man’s right hand.”
Blair looked back at Ray. A gold ring lay in his palm. She took the ring and examined it.
She nodded. “This was Hank’s daddy’s wedding ring. Hank always wore it.”
“Regina said you should have it.”
Her hand clutched it tightly. Tears continued to roll down her cheeks. She was not surprised to hear the news, but the confirmation was enough for her to finally mourn him properly. Still, the wound would never be healed.
“Aw, child,” Ray said. He took her in his arms again and let her cry against his shirt.
Later, when they finished a meal of bacon and eggs at the truck stop café, the trio sat back in the booth and lit cigarettes. They were the only ones in the joint.
“How’s Loretta and little Gregory?” Blair asked Ray.
“Oh, they’re fine. Gregory’s getting bigger. Turned nine years old!”
“Oh, my. Well, give Loretta my love.”
“I will.”
“What do you hear about ‘Blair Kendrick?’” she asked.
Ray shook his head. “That’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Franco is alive and living in Las Vegas.”
She nodded. “I’ve seen him.”
“He knows you’re alive, Blair. He’s looking for you. Some of his flunkies came around asking me about you. They harassed Regina Marley. Darlin’, I think you’re in danger. Those gangsters in Las Vegas have the money and means to find you sooner or later.”
She had been in denial of that truth for some time. “What do you think I should do?”
“I think you have to leave the country.”
She put her head in her hands. Then she abruptly hit her fist on the table. “Goddamn it. You know, I’ve been thinking that this was getting too dangerous for Jane. That I can’t do it anymore. That staying here is too selfish. That I have to go away, for her sake.” She got up from the table and paced. “But where can I go? I don’t know anyone anywhere.”
“Well, now,” Ray said. “I have a friend in Costa Rica.”
38
KARISSA
Karissa hit the road in her Nissan Murano after she’d had breakfast, and, on a whim, stopped by the bank to withdraw a sizable amount of cash from the money she’d received from the coin dealer. She then dialed Marcello.
“What time are you meeting me in Wasco?” she asked him.
“Later today,” he replied. “I’ve got this parent-teacher thing at my kids’ school this morning. You’re on your way to the children’s home in Santa Barbara first?”
“Heading out now.”
“Okay, call me when you leave Santa Barbara. It’ll probably take the same amount of time for you to get to Wasco from Santa Barbara as it will for me to get there from here.”
They hung up and Karissa drove on. Feeling like a woman possessed, she was determined to get to the bottom of the remaining mysteries. The key to finding the answers was in one of the two towns.
Like all Los Angelinos, she thought of her route in terms of highway names. It was a straight shot to Santa Barbara on the 101. That took her through Hollywood, into the Hills near Universal City, and into the San Fernando Valley where the 101 became the Ventura Freeway. Then through Sherman Oaks, Woodland Hills, Thousand Oaks, and finally all the way to the coast and the scenic drive north. It wouldn’t take too long, a couple of hours, if traffic wasn’t bad.
It was around the area of Mussel Shoals that she noticed a black car in the rearview mirror that was shadily familiar. It was too far back to know for certain, but Karissa couldn’t help but land on the obvious possibility—that Barry Doon was on her tail. Cursing softly to herself, she stayed the course, maintained her speed, and gripped the wheel. The car behind her kept its distance on the highway as well, not inching forward or back. Karissa decided to take the next exit to see what would happen. She pulled off the road at La Conchita and drove across a set of railroad tracks. She wanted to stop at a gas station, but the one on the corner was closed and abandoned, so Karissa drove farther into town.
It was a typical beach community with weather-beaten houses built among the rocky shoreline. Keeping one eye on the rearview mirror, where she could still see the 101, she pulled over to the curb of a residential street. The black car sped past the exit, continuing its way north.
She waited a minute, then turned around and got back on the highway. The road continued through Carpinteria and Toro Canyon. However, as she approached the Santa Barbara city limits and a denser landscape of urban development, she saw the black car behind her again. Was she being paranoid, or was it the same vehicle? It seemed so. How had he gotten behind her again without her seeing him? It continued to travel at the same pace at the back as it had before. Karissa knew she was no expert at surveillance techniques or—what did they call it in action thrillers?—E and E. Escape and evasion.
Should she call the police? What would she say, exactly? Hello, there’s a car following me on the highway. Well, duh, cars do follow you on the highway. Without real evidence of a threat, the cops would do nothing.
She really didn’t want to slow down enough for him to get closer so that she could identify the license plate.
Her anxiety crept up again.
The only thing Karissa could do was to keep going. Eventually, her GPS directed her to take one of the Santa Barbara exits, and she drove into downtown. Perpetually glancing at the rearview mirror, she found that the black car was no longer there. The relief she felt was only a little comforting, for she sensed that Doon—or whoever he was—was still in the vicinity.
Karissa drove up to Our Lady of Hope Children’s Home and parked in the visitor lot. As she got out of the car, she took a good look at her surroundings. A tall cliff with a road atop adjoined the property. There was no indication that she was being watched.
Blues in the Dark Page 24
