Blues in the Dark

by Raymond Benson

  At first, the teller’s eyes revealed subtle alarm. He lowered his voice, but remained friendly enough. “May I ask why you need to find him?”

  “Well, I was doing some business with Gregory in Los Angeles, but his phone number got disconnected. I need to speak to him about some money matters. I understand he has something to do with growing nuts?”

  “Are you a bill collector?”

  “No, sir. He stands to receive some cash, and I need to talk to him in person.” Marcello then looked intently into the teller’s eyes and nodded.

  The teller seemed to get the message and, after a beat, grinned. “Gregory does change his number a lot. I have no idea why he does that.”

  “Can you help us out?” Marcello asked quietly.

  The man looked at Karissa, who gave him her best smile. He seemed to like that. Finally, the man sensed that he could trust them. “Sure, he’s at the Bass Player Farm on Paso Robles Highway, heading toward the state prison. Just take E Street up to Paso Robles, hang a left, and go about five miles. You can’t miss it.”

  “Bass Player Farm?”

  The teller shrugged. “I don’t know why he named his farm that. He grows almonds and pistachios.”

  Karissa and Marcello gave each other a fist bump in the parking lot, and then her cell phone rang. The caller ID indicated a Santa Barbara area code.

  “Marcello, it’s the nun. Wait a second.” They leaned against her Murano as she answered the call and put it on speaker so Marcello could listen. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Glover? This is Mother Superior Phyllis Anne at Our Lady of Hope Children’s Home.”

  “Hello! Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “I was able to locate a record regarding your inquiry. I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you, but I can give you what I have.”

  “I would greatly appreciate it, Reverend Mother.”

  “It goes against our ethics here, but the donation you provided will be very helpful. Our Lord Jesus appreciates charitable efforts, and I believe he would forgive me for telling you these things, especially since they occurred so long ago.”

  “Oh, I agree with you,” Karissa said with enthusiasm. She heard the nun chuckle under her breath, as if they were sharing something conspiratorial.

  “Little baby Jane Doe was adopted by an African American family not long after the orphanage took her in. Their names were Lewis and Mabel Channing, and they lived in Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “Phoenix.”

  “That’s right. As far as I know, they continued to call the girl Jane.”

  “Jane Channing. Lewis and Mabel Channing.”

  “Yes. Now, I went ahead and attempted to see if the Channings are still at the address listed in our records. They are not. I’m not sure if you’ll be able to trace the family beyond this, but I’m no private detective. That’s all I have—good luck!”

  “Thank you, Reverend Mother.”

  Karissa hung up and said, “I don’t know if any of that information is helpful. But at least we know that Blair Kendrick’s daughter found a family. What became of her? Can we find out?”

  Marcello indicated his own phone. “The Internet is our friend.” He opened a browser and searched for “Jane Channing Phoenix AZ.” Karissa looked on as he scrolled through various hits. “Well, there’re a few Jane Channings in Phoenix. How old would she be?”

  “She was born in ’49, so, what, she’d be seventy today. If she’s still alive.”

  He backed up and typed “Jane Channing Phoenix Obituary.” Again, he started scrolling, but there weren’t many hits. Then Karissa caught something.

  “Wait. Stop. Look, that name.” She pointed to the text excerpt of the article that appeared beneath the hyperlink headline. “It mentions Mrs. Mabel Channing. Open that one.”

  “Good eyes, Karissa.” The link went to a piece in The Arizona Republic. Marcello read the brief entry. “Jane Eliza Channing Bradford, age Twenty-Five, formerly of Phoenix, died in Las Vegas, Nevada, on May Third, Nineteen-Seventy-Five. Survivors include her mother, Mrs. Mabel Channing of Phoenix.”

  “Oh, no. Damn. What a disappointment. It doesn’t say what she died of.”

  “Nope.” He Googled “Mabel Channing Phoenix Obituary.” It came up with a date of 1991 and indicated that the woman had left no survivors, but that she was “joining her husband, Lewis, and daughter, Jane, in heaven.”

  “Well, I guess that’s a dead end,” Karissa said.

  “Wait a second.” Marcello then Googled “Jane Channing Bradford Las Vegas Obituary.” Several hits appeared, but none of them were obituaries. There were, however, several stories about a double murder.

  “What the hell?” he murmured as he opened one. He read the entry from the Las Vegas Review-Journal, dated May 4, 1975. “Police are investigating what appears to be a double homicide at a residence on Reynolds Avenue. Maxwell and Jane Bradford were found shot to death in their home, apparently victims of a break-in. Sergeant Sean Wallis indicates the crime could be drug-related. Particularly troubling is that the couple’s infant daughter is missing and believed to be dead. The Bradfords were both employees of the Golden Nugget Casino.” He looked at Karissa, whose eyes exhibited horror. “Hoooly shit,” he said.

  “What a tragedy. Look for some follow-up stories,” Karissa prodded.

  He did so and found something dated May 5, 1975. “This is hardly a mention. Says police have no leads in the double homicide of Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Bradford or the disappearance of their daughter. Again, they say it’s drug-related.” He kept searching and scanning the hits. “Wait. Here’s something from the sixth.” He showed it to her.

  “Oh my God.” Karissa put a hand to her mouth. She reads aloud, “‘Police found evidence that the Bradfords’ baby daughter was possibly killed. The little girl’s clothing was found in a trash dumpster a block away from the scene of the crime. Blood on the pajamas matched the toddler’s type, but no corpse has been recovered.’ This is horrible.”

  Together they scanned the other entries on the page, but ultimately determined that the case had never been solved.

  “Wow. That’s so sad.” She sighed heavily. “Blair not only had a daughter, but she had a granddaughter, Marcello. Too bad she never knew about it.” Then Karissa remembered something. “Wait, when was Buddy Franco shot in that diner? That was in Las Vegas, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, 1975!” He punched in some terms into his phone and got the date. “May 9. That’s damn close to May 5.”

  They looked at each other. “Coincidence?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “And maybe not.” She looked at her wristwatch. “It’s nearly five o’clock. Come on, let’s get going. I want to get to that nut farm before they close.”

  They went to their separate vehicles and Karissa followed Marcello out of town on Paso Robles Highway. As the postman had said, they didn’t have far to go. A short road led from the highway to Bass Player Farm, which consisted of a warehouse, a front office administration building, another structure that appeared to be where the products were processed, and a house behind everything else. The buildings were surrounded by a sizable orchard of almond trees.

  They parked and approached the building. Marcello added, “I did a quick look-see on their website. Says the owner and operator is someone named Harold Green. Is that an online alias for Gregory Webster? I think he’d be making sure to cover his tracks. They grow and process their own almonds here, and then sell them to a different distributor. They’re organic, too.”

  “Interesting,” Karissa murmured, but she was more concerned about what she was going to find inside.

  They entered the front office, but found no one there. “I didn’t see anyone outside, either. Don’t they have employees?” Marcello asked. He hit a desk bell button on the counter. When they were just about to give up, they heard someone approaching from the back room. A black woman in her late sixties appeared—they immediately recognized her as Carol Webster, Gregory�
��s wife, whom they had seen at Ray Webster’s funeral.

  “Hello, how can I help—?” Her eyes grew wide when she saw Karissa. “Oh, my.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Webster,” Karissa said. “Is your husband here?”

  “Just a minute. I’ll get him.” She went through the door and they heard her pick up a phone. Her voice was low.

  “He’s not going to come out shooting, is he?” Marcello whispered to Karissa.

  They waited a few minutes, and then Gregory, his wife, and a woman who looked vaguely familiar came into the space. The woman was also black, in her thirties, and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. In a swift movement, she stepped forward and lifted her hands to embrace Karissa.

  “Karissa!” the woman said, as if they were old friends. “You made it. You found us!”

  Karissa paused, tilting her head. “Do I know you?”

  The woman laughed. “I was dressed in a nice pantsuit when we met in the lobby of the Executive Suites. I’m Serena. Serena Brantley. I’m the one who told you about the house in West Adams Heights.”

  “Oh! Right!” Karissa put a hand to her mouth. “But … wait a second … I don’t …”

  “It was the only way we could drop a big ol’ bread crumb so that you’d go to the house. We figured you’d rent it—it was a good deal, wasn’t it? We made you an offer you couldn’t have refused. After that, it was just a matter of time for you to explore the history of that house and then eventually come here to us.” Serena laughed again. “You should see your face right now. Girl, you been punk’d! I ain’t no real estate agent.”

  “Serena’s my niece,” Gregory said. “I was wondering when you’d finally find us.” He moved around from behind the counter and held out a hand first to Karissa and then to Marcello. “I’m Gregory Webster, and that’s my wife, Carol.”

  They all shook hands. “I’m a little freaked out,” Karissa said. She addressed Serena, “You mean … you told me about the house for a reason?”

  “Just like Serena said. It was to get you to follow your nose and find us,” Gregory answered. “Sorry we had to be so indirect about it. And I’m sorry we couldn’t speak at my father’s funeral. We were being watched. Luckily, I’ve managed to remain hard to find outside of Los Angeles.”

  “Are you … Howard Green?” Marcello asked.

  Gregory grinned again. “There are people in town—you know, brothers—who know me by my real name, but to the public this place is run by Howard Green. We’re not very big, compared to other almond farms in California. We stay under the radar by just growing almonds, processing them, and wholesaling them to distributors that package them and take care of the retail end. That’s why the men looking for me have been unable to do so, and it’s also why I don’t stay in Los Angeles but for a few hours at a time when I visit!”

  “Wait,” Karissa said. “I’m really trying to get my head around this. It was your intention to get me here?”

  “That’s right,” Serena said. “We thought you’d be the perfect producer to tell Blair’s story.”

  “I’m not sure what the story is!” She said, still dumbfounded. Then she addressed Gregory. “I mean, I mentioned to you at the funeral—and sorry again for your loss—”

  “Thank you.”

  “—anyway, I mentioned that we are trying to make a movie about Blair Kendrick and Hank Marley, and we’d spoken to your father at Vernon Healthcare before he passed. He said we needed to talk to you. Is that why we’re here? Do you have something you can tell us?”

  Gregory just smiled. “Let’s go back to our house.” He looked at his wife. “Carol, lock up the office, we’ll close early today. No one’s coming in, anyway.” She nodded and did so while he and Serena led Karissa and Marcello out the back of the administration office. They crossed a paved area that served as a connector to the various buildings. A separate driveway from the parking lot also went to the two-story home that stood behind the warehouse. It appeared to be several decades old, but recent models of a Ford pickup and a Chevy SUV sat in an open garage connected to the building.

  “Carol and I got a windfall and bought this property in 1990,” he said as they walked. “It was already an almond farm, and the family who had run it had been here since the Great Depression. That’s how old our house is. The garage was built in the eighties. Serena lives in town and works at the Walmart Supercenter.”

  “Carol’s my aunt,” Serena explained.

  Gregory continued, “As you can see, right now there’s no work being done. Harvesting isn’t until the fall. Employees are hired seasonally. We just take care of orders for the nuts from last year, and Carol and I can handle that ourselves.” He then gave Karissa a lovely smile. “I’m really quite pleased to finally talk to you, Ms. Glover. We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Call me Karissa.”

  They entered through a side door that opened to the kitchen. “Can I get you some coffee or something?”

  Karissa looked at Marcello, who shook his head. “No, thanks, it’s too hot for coffee,” she answered. “We’re fine.”

  “Okay, let me or Carol know if we can get you anything.” By then his wife had caught up with them and came into the kitchen. “Oh, come with us upstairs, will you? There’s someone I want you to meet.” They followed him to the wooden stairs, and then climbed to the second floor. He pointed to a bedroom. “In there.”

  Karissa and Marcello walked into a small room furnished with a hospital bed, an IV drip pole and bag, and a tray table. There were also a couple of empty chairs where visitors could sit. The tube from the drip was connected to the arm of a very old woman who lay in the bed. She had white hair and wrinkled pale skin, and she was smoking a cigarette. It appeared that her knees were propped up with pillows underneath the sheets that went up to her neck.

  Karissa gasped aloud, for she recognized the brown eyes that were gazing at her with interest.

  Gregory entered the room behind her and said, “I’m pleased to introduce to you … Blair Kendrick.”

  “Oh … my … God,” Marcello muttered, his jaw dropping.

  41

  THE MOVIE

  An aerial shot of Las Vegas zooms down to a quiet neighborhood on the west side, and then the camera settles on the exterior of the modest Bradford ranch house. A 1970 Chevrolet Impala pulls up into the driveway. Maxwell and Jane Bradford get out of the car. Jane opens the back door, reaches in, and pulls out her daughter, now almost two years old. As the family goes in through the front door of the house, we pan across the street to a 1971 Ford Tempo parked at the curb. Blair, in her guise as “Penny Miller,” with sunglasses and a scarf, watches.

  Her voice-over tells us, “Time crawled by, but I remained in Las Vegas and lived off the proceeds of selling Eldon’s old coins, one by one. By the year 1975, things had settled down a little. I hadn’t seen Buddy Franco in months, nor had I received any indication that the mob was keeping tabs on my daughter’s family. Franco stopped showing up at the Sunshine Diner, where I’d always spotted him. Had he and Justin Hirsch given up? Or was I just blind? Maybe I’d gotten careless. Whatever—I began to wonder if I could take the risk of getting to know Jane and her family in person. I really wanted to hold my granddaughter again!”

  Blair, carrying a wrapped present under one arm, rang the doorbell and waited. The house was not in the best of neighborhoods. A good portion of the African American population lived in North Las Vegas, and, as it was in most cities in the United States, minorities had a more difficult time making things work. Crime was an issue, along with low income, systemic racism, and the whole nine yards.

  Jane answered the door. “Yes?” she asked, somewhat surprised to see a white woman standing on her porch.

  Blair had known she was off work that day. Maxwell was at the casino on his shift. “Hi,” she said with a smile, “I was wondering if you might need a nanny? Someone to look after your child and fix your meals or whatever?”

  Jane looked at her as if she were mad. “We
can’t afford a nanny, but thanks.” She started to close the door, but Blair stopped her.

  “Wait! I … I’m not looking for any pay. In fact,” she handed over the wrapped package. “I know your daughter’s birthday is around the corner, and I brought her something to play with.”

  Jane tried to give it back. “I can’t accept this. Who are you? Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “I’m Penny. I, uhm, I used to go to your church sometimes. Maybe you’ve seen me there.”

  “Well, I can’t take the present. Thank you anyway.”

  “Please. It’s a gift. I want her to have it.”

  Jane looked at her sideways. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  Blair shrugged. “No reason. You seem like a very nice family. You have such a cute daughter.” She pushed the present back into Jane’s arms. The woman attempted to shove it away.

  “No, lady, I don’t want it!”

  “It’s for your girl!” Blair practically broke into tears. “It … it was for my own granddaughter, but she died … in a … in a car accident. Please take it. It’s her birthday present. Please?” She abruptly turned and walked away, not giving her daughter the chance to protest.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  “Too late, dear!” Blair got in her Ford, started it, and backed out into the street. A bewildered Jane just stood on her doorstep, the present in her arms, watching the crazy woman drive away.

  Tears welled in Blair’s eyes as she pulled out onto Pecos Road and gained speed.

  Damn you, Blair! she told herself. That had been a mistake. What had she been thinking? Be a nanny? No wonder Jane had thought she was a mad, old white woman. Perhaps she was.

  The man wearing a Los Angeles Dodgers cap noted what had just occurred at the small house on Reynolds Avenue. He sat in an unmarked white van, sweating profusely in the Nevada heat; at least he was being paid handsomely for watching the home.

  Old man Tonino would reward him even more for the information he had just obtained. It was the third time he’d seen the Ford Tempo on the block, and in each instance a white woman had been the driver. That was more than coincidence.