Relatively Dead (5 page)

Could the scammer be hacking my cell phone? I’d called the motel from it to make the reservation. In today’s technological world, anything was possible. I’d have to be careful what I said while I was using it. But I was definitely going to take the letter to the police.

I punched in the number for the office on the motel phone and asked the clerk if anyone had called asking for me.

“Yes. A man called this morning and asked for you by name. When I said you weren’t due to arrive until this afternoon he said there was no message.”

“Was that before the envelope was delivered?”

“Yes, maybe an hour before.”

Someone had hunted me down. Meanwhile, I was determined not to let this upset me. I would be very careful who I showed the letter to, because people like Rigo were always worrying about me. I belatedly started handling the letter with a tissue, folded it, and replaced it in the envelope. I placed the envelope in one of the many zippered pockets in my suitcase. I changed into shorts, athletic bra, and T-shirt. I pulled on my running shoes and headed out the door of the motel room toward the beach to run under the warm Southern California sun.

***

I couldn’t remember many events from my pre-amnesia life, but I could remember some of the books I’d read. One science fiction anthology included a story that started something like this: “The last man on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.”

Before I rediscovered my identity, I sometimes felt like the last woman on earth. I remembered the feeling now as I waited for Rigo. Fortunately, he and his parents provided an anchor that held me to the ground so I didn’t drift off into the ether.

On my first trip to California after I recovered my identity, Rigo and I found each other, sexually. Not wanting to do anything in his parents’ house, which would make us both feel guilty, we rented a room at this motel. That’s how he knew where to meet me.

I took a long shower, dried myself carefully, fluffed my short hair, and put on a touch of perfume and a white T-shirt I’d borrowed from Rigo on my last visit and didn’t return. Nothing else. I knew he didn’t like the color black on a woman, or fancy lingerie. This should do the trick. I pulled back the covers on the bed. The time was five minutes to five. His text message response said he would try to get here by five.

There was a knock on the door. My elevated heart rate gave away my feelings. I opened the door and there he was: all six feet something of him, thin as a rail, unruly hair, slightly lopsided smile, all for me. We fell into each other’s arms, hardly uttering a word. After we kissed and hugged for a while, Rigo held me at arm’s length and looked at me.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

“If you want it, you’re going to have to take it off me.”

“Oho, we’ll see about that.”

I put up a good fight, but he finally managed to get the shirt off me, a process that somehow involved touching me all over. When I stood before him, naked, I attacked his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt, unhooking his belt, untying his shoes, pulling off everything, including his underwear. He managed to continue caressing my body while I was doing this.

“Now we’re even.”

I used a move I’d learned in my martial arts class to dump him on his back on the bed. Then I jumped on top of him.

CHAPTER 6

The sun conquered the low clouds of early morning and would rule the heavens for the rest of the day. However, it was still cool on the shaded, west-facing hillside where the memorial service was taking place. I was glad I was wearing a black sweater with my dressy slacks. I parked my car on the road and walked down the path that followed the edge of the cliff above the ocean.

Jason had told me the path was steep. He was right about that. Without this knowledge I might not have worn my running shoes, which would have been a disaster. I was also glad it hadn’t rained recently, which would have made the dirt path muddy and slippery. I had to go too close to the edge of the cliff for comfort, anyway.

I was also nervous because I didn’t know anybody who would be attending the memorial service. I didn’t want to be there. I would much rather be running along the beautiful beaches. However, I’d flown across the country and promised Jason I would attend. I couldn’t back out now.

I was in disguise—sort of. My hair was longer than when I received all the publicity for recovering my identity. I also wore dark glasses, an old Hollywood trick for being incognito. They were justified by the brightness of the sun dancing on the water out from the shaded shore. I didn’t think Grandma’s scammer would be here, especially since he implied he’d killed Jason, but I was trying not to take any chances.

I wasn’t taking his threat very seriously (I kept telling myself), but I’d locked the dead bolt on the door and secured the windows in my motel room before going to bed. And forced Rigo to stay the night with me as my bodyguard. He didn’t struggle much. I didn’t tell him about the letter.

Grandma was opposed to me coming to California. She took the scammer’s phone threat to kill me, seriously. I assured her I would take precautions, and reminded her that in an area with over ten million people it was unlikely we would run into each other. That argument had blown up like a firecracker on the Fourth of July, since he knew where I was staying. Perhaps I should take Jason up on his offer to find me another motel room. Or get Rigo to stay with me every night.

Audrey was under orders to monitor all Grandma’s telephone calls and not let her go into her new bank alone. I was confident Audrey would take good care of Grandma. I didn’t believe
she
was in physical danger from the scammer, especially since he seemed to be a lot more interested in what
I
was doing. But just in case, the security service I’d hired was continuing to keep a watch on the farm.

Several dozen people, mostly young, were already assembled at a relatively level but fairly narrow area on the cliffside. I decided to stay on the edge of the group and observe, especially since they all seemed to know each other. I checked the hands of the males closest to me for rashes and “creeping crud,” but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

The younger people were casually dressed in jeans. Was this appropriate attire? Perhaps for a service on a cliff. I didn’t remember ever having attended a funeral or memorial service, although I must have gone to the funeral of my grandfather. There were no chairs. Everybody was standing.

An older man with bronze and gray hair approached me. He was easily the oldest person there. Had he been carried down on a litter? I was about to say something to him when he spoke.

“You must be Cynthia.” He gave me a smile. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Jason? How did you know it was me?” Wasn’t my disguise working?

“You arrived separately. You obviously don’t know anyone here. You have the correct hair color and other physical characteristics for Cynthia.”

I almost laughed before I remembered where I was. I gave him a hug. Shaking hands seemed too cold for an occasion like this. “I’m so sorry about your grandson.” I’d told him that on the phone but I didn’t know what else to say.

Jason nodded. “It’s a tragedy. He was only twenty-five. The family is scattered, but we did manage to get some relatives to come. His parents—my son and daughter-in-law—are here. Plus his two sisters and one aunt. His grandparents on his mother’s side are dead.”

I knew Jason’s wife had died five years before. Grandma told me that when I asked about my cousins. Grandma’s failing memory didn’t produce much other information about relatives.

Jason guided me to a small group consisting of family members, and introduced me to them. The names blurred in my head as I shook hands and expressed condolences. I should have written down their names when I was talking to Jason on the phone. The most obviously affected were the dead man’s parents, who appeared to be in shock. I felt anything I said to them would be inadequate.

A blown-up photo of the dead man was leaning against a rock. He had an infectious smile on his face. An urn sat beside the photo. It must hold Jason’s ashes. I had a hard time looking at it. It seemed so final.

The service started; Jason officiated, using a cordless microphone. It was very informal, with no religious connotations. Jason stood beside the photo of the dead Jason with his back to the cliff and gave a brief biography of his grandson. He included stories of things the two did together. The parents were apparently too overcome to speak, but one of his sisters and some of the other younger people spoke.

They told stories about the dead Jason, some of which were quite funny and brought laughter. Jason must have been very popular. He was a surfer and this was his crowd. The secluded cove below us was a surfing spot, and I could see carefree, wet-suited surfers catching the morning waves. Because of the configuration of the cove and the direction the waves took coming into the beach, they were getting long rides. I began to have a feeling for what Jason must have been like, and this made me emotional. Some tears fell.

When no more people wished to speak, Jason, the grandfather, concluded the service and invited everybody to nosh on the sandwiches that had been packed down the path from the road and set up on small portable tables. I still felt like an outsider. I found the sister of the dead man who had spoken, and told her I enjoyed her reminiscences. She thanked me, but was soon waylaid by someone else. I had a few brief conversations with other attendees, but since I hadn’t known Jason I couldn’t really contribute anything.

I decided I’d fulfilled my obligation to the family. The older Jason was deep in conversation with someone. I had the number where he was staying. I’d call him later. I started walking up the path toward the road.

“Cynthia.”

I stopped and turned toward Jason, feeling guilty. He’d caught me fleeing the scene.

“I’m sorry the members of my family haven’t been more hospitable. It’s a tough time for them, as you can imagine. Things are going to be very hectic for the rest of the day because they’re all leaving. Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I planned to stay for several days, in order to be with Rigo and see other people.

“I want to get to know you better and also tell you what I’ve learned about Jason’s murder. We talked about going to the police. Are you still okay with that?”

“Of course.”

I wanted to help Jason in any way I could. Since he was a cousin I wanted to stay in touch with him. All I knew about the circumstances of the murder of his grandson was what I’d read in the online edition of the
Los Angeles Times
, and the newspaper articles left me with more questions than answers.

We agreed on a time and place for a meeting. He had my cell phone number, but I gave him a card from the motel, wrote my room number on it, and asked him to call me at that number if he wanted to get in touch with me.

He glanced at it. “Is anything wrong?”

I’d previously given him my cell phone number. It wasn’t an appropriate place to talk about my concerns, so I evaded the question with a vague statement about my cell phone having a problem, gave Jason a hug, and walked up the path, turning to absorb the glorious vista of the rocky cliff above the blue ocean dotted with surfers—looking like sea lions in their black wetsuits. This was a perfect spot to say good-bye to a young man who obviously loved life. Another tear rolled down my cheek.

CHAPTER 7

“So how long have you been a race-car driver?”

Rigo took an exaggerated hold on the door grip of the Porsche as I rounded a curve on Route 101 west of Santa Barbara.

“Oh, about an hour.”

I drove carefully coming out of Los Angeles. As I got the feel of the car I became more adventurous, but I was still within a few miles-per-hour of the speed limit, knowing what an attraction a red sports car was to cops. Rigo was playing with me.

He wangled the afternoon off from his job at his parents’ business. They knew by now I was the reason. Although they badly wanted to see me, he was managing to keep me mostly to himself, at least until dinner tonight.

We’d stopped in Santa Barbara to visit his uncle who lived there. Now we cruised through the Gaviota Tunnel and turned off on the road to Nojoqui Falls Park, a destination picked on a whim, so we had somewhere definite to go. As we entered the parking area we realized we had the park to ourselves on a weekday afternoon.

We walked hand-in-hand up the tree-lined stone steps to the promised waterfall.

“You haven’t told me anything about the funeral.”

“Memorial service.” It was true. We’d been chatting about many other things, but not that.

“What relation is the dead man to you?”

“Jason told me the dead Jason is my third cousin. It’s confusing because of all the Jasons.” I gave Rigo a brief summary of the events of the memorial service.

“Somehow, I got the impression you’re connecting his murder to the swindle of your grandmother.”

Rigo’s dark eyes drilled into mine. He was sharp.

“I don’t know if there’s any connection. Jason—the live Jason—thinks there may be a connection. Supposedly, the swindler alluded to the dead Jason when he was talking to Grandma.” I wasn’t about to tell Rigo about the threatening letter. “He seemed to know something about our extended family. I told the live Jason I’d go to the memorial service and talk to the police. Seeing you wouldn’t be enough of an excuse for a trip to California.”