Too Big To Miss (14 page)

    Sure enough, it did look like she was crying. I swallowed hard, the mouthwash still burning my mucous membranes.
    Boomer clicked some more and the photos returned to smaller, four-to-a-page size.
    "In these pictures," Boomer explained, pointing to a photo in the next sequence grouping, "she's got the gun barrel in her mouth." He clicked to enlarge the shot. "But look at her eyes. She's definitely looking at something. This next picture, too." He clicked the mouse to bring up the next photo and clicked again to enlarge it. "And look at her shoulders." With an index finger, Boomer traced along Sophie's neck and shoulders while Greg and I watched. "They're squared, determined, like she's getting ready to rumble."
    I scrutinized the photos, my brain exploding with new insight. The kid was right. Sophie may have had a gun in her mouth, but her eyes, hard as tempered steel, were fixed on something or someone specific. And her posture was rigid, her head held high. It was anything but the stance of a depressed and despondent woman.
    "If I were offing myself," Boomer continued, "I wouldn't be looking around. I'd be scared shitless, probably with my eyes shut tight. But this woman...she looks pissed!"

Chapter Nineteen

THERE IS SOMETHING to be said for keeping the hands busy and the mind occupied.
    My ergonomically structured workspace was landscaped in an ever-changing mountain range of manila folders and brownish red expanding files. As I worked, one peak grew, while another lessened. Industry had become my middle name, replacing Patience, which was running low in supply.
    Since arriving at the office this morning, I had feverishly typed up my notes from the meeting with our client the day before. Then I moved on to setting up the needed files, and began processing the paperwork to qualify the client's company in the four new states in which it was planning to do business. It was detail work that included research, typing, and placing a few calls. Steele had promised the client the required forms would be ready for signing by the end of next week. I planned on getting them to the client for signature by Monday. The client would be happy.
    I kept my head down and my mind focused, vowing to keep Sophie out of sight, out of mind, at least until after work. The task at hand was simple enough, and I could do it in my sleep. There were few surprises in corporate work. I knew where the project began, and could track my progress easily. The desired end was recognizable and tidy. It was more than I could say about my other project, my after-hours undertaking.
    The night before, Greg had wanted to take me to dinner. But I had declined, saying I didn't have much of an appetite. As always, he had understood. I just wanted to go home, fix something simple like soup, and privately cogitate on the missing links, the phantom people just beyond the camera range. Which I did until two this morning.
    Who could they have been? The only thing I was sure of was one of the people at Sophie's that day had been a woman. Only a woman could have met Ortiz at the door and passed herself off as the lady of the house.
    Greg and I had tried calling Detective Frye with our findings, but the person answering his phone at the station said that he was out until Monday. She asked what it was about, saying someone else would be happy to help me. Instead, I told her that I'd call back after the weekend.
    What we had was nothing concrete, just theories based on a dead woman's gaze moments before her death. It would have been different if the photos had shown a shoe or a hand, or something tangible that could be linked to a living being. And I only wanted to talk to Frye. One trained professional patiently listening to my amateurish and emotional speculations was enough.
    Sophie's eyes, and the anger burning in them just before she pulled the trigger, had been branded into my brain, as if my noggin had been the side of a struggling calf. It had bleated in pain at the sight and felt the stinging of the hot iron long after the pictures had been shut down. I thought about it even throughout my morning walk.
    Today, only Ruth had been at the starting place at six. The two of us had walked together quietly, exchanging a few pleasantries. She seemed to respect my preoccupation and even asked if I was okay. I had assured her that I was, saying I was just concerned about something at work.
    Ahhhh, but here I go again, digressing into Murderland, buying an adult ticket and standing in line to ride the attractions. And I had promised myself that I wouldn't until tonight. I thought about tonight and exhaled concern. Tonight I was scheduled to have dinner with the scary Mr. Hollowell.
    The new project well on its way, I turned my attention to returning a small batch of phone calls that had accumulated the day before when I was out of the office. Most were clients asking about the status of their work, or requesting some last-minute changes or guidance. Mr. Wallace had called, but I'd returned that call as soon as I got in. He expressed concern he hadn't been the one to tell me about my new assignment with Mike Steele, and, like Tina, he urged me to give it a chance.
    One voice mail message had been from a woman named Marcia. She had called early this morning, just before I had arrived at the office. She left no last name and no call back number. If it was important, she'd call again.
    People strolled by my desk chatting. Two women stopped—Joan and Kelsey. Joan was a litigation paralegal, Kelsey the librarian. They tried to coax me out to lunch, but I declined, saying I wanted to clear my desk up a bit more. I hadn't given the office manager any solid dates for taking some more time off while Mr. Wallace was gone, but I knew I needed some R R. After giving me some gentle ribbing about being too conscientious, Joan and Kelsey left, but not before extracting a promise to go out next Friday for Kelsey's birthday.
    After working a while longer, I gave in to my growling stomach and went to the lunchroom to fetch my lunch from the refrigerator. I was gone less than two minutes, returning to hear my phone ringing. Looking at the caller ID display on the phone, I saw it was Joyce, our bubbly, red-haired receptionist. Pulling a homemade tuna sandwich from a brown paper bag, I picked up the receiver and gave her a cheerful hello.
    She announced that I had a visitor...a Mrs. Peter Olsen.
    Instantly my mind went to the unknown Marcia from the earlier message. Peter Olsen had said his wife's name was Marcia. Marcia Olsen. That must've been who called.
    My lunch sack fell to the floor with a crinkly thud.

MRS. PETER OLSEN wasn't alone. She'd brought her mother, Irene Pugh, a.k.a. Gram, along for support. After introductions, Marcia Olsen invited me to lunch, saying she had to speak with me immediately. She said it was about Sophie. My tuna on whole wheat would have to take a rain check.
    The three of us were seated in a booth along a bank of windows in the restaurant, oddly a member of the same chain in which I'd lunched with Peter Olsen just four days prior.
    Mrs. Pugh looked very much the same as when I'd last seen her. Pearls hugged her neck, and she was wearing a slightly different version of the demure floral print dress of before.
    Marcia Olsen reminded me a lot of her husband, Peter—quiet, yet strong and confident. Looking at her, the word medium popped into my mind. She was medium in build, not fat, not thin, with medium brown hair worn in a medium length blunt cut. Her brown eyes were nice, but unremarkable, and her face pleasant, but not outstanding. She had a nice, appealing smile. I suspected that even her temperament didn't run either too hot or too cold.
    My first impulse was to like her. After all, for whatever reasons, she had allowed Sophie to follow Robbie's development over the years.
    Our lunches were served. Cobb salads for both me and Marcia, with Gram ordering a chicken club on whole wheat toast. Marcia smiled, while Gram scowled. I wasn't sure Gram approved of this trip to Orange County, or of me. No one seemed sure of how to start beyond ordering food.
    "So, tell me," I began, wanting some of the questions cluttering my brain like dirty laundry answered, "did you really send all that stuff about Robbie to Sophie over the years?"
    "Yes," Marcia answered evenly, without a hint of defense in her voice.
    From beside her daughter, Gram gave up a mild, "Humph."
    Marcia glanced at her mother, with a quick frown.
    "My mother never approved of that, as you can see," she said, returning her attention to me.
    I kept on eating. Marcia Olsen had come to me with a purpose. She was dying to tell me something, but in her own good time. Looking over at Gram, I wished the old woman would eat elsewhere. I eyed an empty stool at the counter and wondered if it'd be too rude to park her there, if just for the next fifteen minutes.
    Instead, I asked Marcia, "Why did you? I'm sure Sophie appreciated it, but not many second wives would do such an unselfish thing."
    Marcia stopped eating and looked down at her salad. When her eyes met mine a few seconds later, I could see that they were starting to pool. "Peter said you didn't know anything about Robbie, that Sophie never even told you about him."
    "That's right. Came as a complete surprise."
    "She was a devoted mother, you know."
    "And you're not?" Gram quipped quietly, giving me a sample of her strong accent.
    "Now, Mother, stop it," Marcia said gently to the older woman, then turned her attention back to me.
    "Sophie and I both loved Robbie. It was something we had in common." She smiled wanly. "You know, at first I was very jealous of her, but then, after I got to know her, I realized I had nothing to worry about. She had no intention of returning to reclaim Robbie or Peter. She just wanted to see her child. You understand that, don't you?"
    I nodded. Yes, I did understand that. Even though I was childless myself, I could understand a mother not being able to keep away from her child. I'd be the same way in similar circumstances.
    In my head, I quickly rewound my meeting with Peter Olsen and played it back. He hadn't said anything about Sophie seeing Robbie after she was declared dead. And he never mentioned the two women meeting. In fact, he had been surprised to find out Marcia had been in contact with Sophie, even by mail.
    "You met Sophie?" I asked, surprised. "In person?"
    Marcia nodded. "Yes, at first I noticed her hanging around the school yard when I'd pick Robbie up in the afternoon. He was little, only about seven or eight at the time. I didn't know who she was at first. She wore sunglasses and usually a hat. I thought she was just another parent waiting for her child. But I knew most of the families. The school wasn't that big.
    "Then I began to notice that this woman had eyes only for my Robbie. It wasn't everyday, but every so often, maybe once or twice a month. It made me nervous. I thought maybe she was one of those crazy women who snatched kids, so finally I confronted her. Nicely, of course."
    
Of course
, I thought to myself and smiled. I could see this mild-mannered woman approaching the big and bold Sophie.
    "You never told your husband?"
    She shook her head. "I didn't want to worry him, or have him think I was being paranoid."
    "I think it was nervy of the woman," Gram snapped in a tight, low voice.
    "Mother, be still or go sit in the car. I didn't bring you here to snipe at poor Sophie, God rest her soul."
    Gram might have been sterner than her daughter, but it was easy to see Marcia didn't allow her mother run her. Under all that medium beat the heart of a lioness. Marcia Olsen was kind, decent, and, at all times, the protector of her lair. It was becoming clearer how she and Sophie had bonded.
    Marcia sipped her iced tea and smiled at me.
    "She was so nice, Odelia. But then you know that. We hit it off right away. You know, Robbie's a lot like his mother, but more reserved. Anyway, it broke my heart to see how being away from her son was tearing her up, so I started keeping in touch with her, sending her pictures and little keepsakes. We became quite good friends over the years. Once I even invited her to one of Robbie's Little League games. Peter was out of town. I introduced her to Robbie as an old friend."
    "And Peter never knew?" I asked.
    "No," she replied, "but he does now. At that time, I was afraid he'd tell her to stay away. Men don't understand these things. Peter and I were never able to have our own children." She looked down at the half-eaten salad in front of her, her mouth turned down. "If it hadn't been for Sophie and what she did, her sacrifice, I would never have had a son."
    I reached out and touched her hand. Her fingers slipped over mine and squeezed firmly. She looked up and our eyes met. I knew she was telling the truth. Her motives had been pure, a way of thanking Sophie for giving her a family. I found myself wishing that Marcia Olsen didn't live so far away.
    "You might as well tell her the rest," Gram said in a hushed voice. She had slipped an arm around her daughter's shoulders to comfort her. My estimation of the older woman went up a few notches.
    I looked at Marcia expectantly.
    "Peter thought...by the way, he knows I'm here today. We discussed the whole matter and thought you should know the entire story. He said you're looking into the suicide. That you don't believe Sophie killed herself." She leaned toward me, her jaw set. "We don't believe it, either."
    Marcia dug into her purse and presented me with the baby shoes from the fancy box. They were still in the zip sealed bag. I took them and looked at her, thoroughly puzzled.
    The waitress came and cleared our plates.
    "There's something inside I think you should see," Marcia said, after the waitress refilled our drinks and left.
    I opened the plastic bag and removed a baby shoe. Looking inside, I found some paper and extracted it. It was an old, tightly folded clipping, actually two of them, from an Orange County newspaper. After carefully opening the yellowed paper, I scanned one article, not sure of what I was supposed to see. Then I read it again, slowly, carefully, and from the top. I did the same with the second article.
    The first clipping was a story about a baby's death, dated seventeen years prior. The baby in question had been a boy with Down's Syndrome. He was eleven months old when he was found dead in his crib. The live-in nanny, named Bonnie Sheffley, had been suspected of suffocating the child. All who knew the girl claimed it impossible, including the dead baby's parents, who stood emphatically by their trust in her.
    There was a photo of Bonnie Sheffley above the piece. She was a comely girl, plump and rosy, with curly blond hair, and an angelic smile. The article said she was just twenty years old.
    The second article was a small follow-up piece to the first. It announced that the nanny had been cleared of all suspicion, with the final determination being that the baby had died from crib death.
    The baby's name was Jonathan Hollowell, son of John and Clarice Hollowell of Newport Beach.
    I leaned back in the booth, my eyes still focused on the newspaper held limply between my fingers.
    "There's more," Marcia said. "In the other shoe."
    The other shoe was still in the bag. I was almost afraid to lay a hand on it, scared of what might be lurking within the scuffed white leather. Yet, I wanted to know. Like a kid told not to touch the stove, I had to reach out a hand to see for myself what hot meant.
    Again, I fished out a newspaper article. This one was even older, dated twenty-two years ago. It was about an accident, a fatal hit and run. The victim had been a prominent Orange County businessman named Kenneth Woodall. Woodall had been struck and killed as he was getting into his car in front of a shop on Pacific Coast Highway. The driver of the other car was never found, but witnesses claimed that the car had been swerving erratically just before it slammed into Woodall.
    According to the short bio at the end of the piece, Kenneth Woodall owned a real estate development firm called Woodall Development Corp. He was survived by his wife and young daughter. His wife's name was Clarice.
    "Did you know about this before?"
    "No," Marcia responded, her voice almost a whisper. "When Peter brought home the box you gave him, I went through it. I found those articles just as you did, inside the shoes."
    Alarms were going off in my head, popping like kernels of corn in a hot, oily pan.
    To an objective eye, the articles meant nothing, just tragedies occurring in the same family. But both had connections to Hollowell. Sophie had hidden them, kept them for years for a reason. Hollowell had asked if Sophie had left anything for him. Maybe he was talking about these. But he couldn't have been. Newspaper articles were public record. Anyone could look these up in the archives of the newspaper or a public library with excellent resources. Unless...unless Sophie had the means to bridge them into something incriminating, something more than what they appeared. I looked down at the aging paper and knew that I held, in my damp hands, a key to unlocking the truth about Sophie's supposed suicide. I just had to find the right door with the right lock.
    "I don't know what these mean, Marcia. But I intend to find out."
    "Odelia," Marcia said, looking me dead in the eye, "there's something else."
    I braced myself, waiting for the next blow.
    "We're afraid of John Hollowell, of what he might try."
    "Ya," Gram interrupted, her voice filled with passion. "Let him try!"
    "Mother, please!"
    The old woman ignored her daughter's plea. Pointing a knobby index finger in my direction, her eyes burning coals behind old fashioned glasses, she leaned forward. "That man touch one hair on my Robert's head," Mrs. Pugh said in a low, harsh whisper, "or harm my daughter or Peter, I swear I kill him! I have shotgun. I know how to use it."
    "Mother, stop it!"
    So much for warm cookies and milk at Grandma's house.
    The old woman relaxed, leaning back in the booth. Her face was flushed and determined. Marcia looked drained, ready to sob.
    What in the hell did Hollowell have to do with the Olsens?
    Lunch time is supposed to be a time of rest, a break in the activities of the day. I was exhausted from all this information and emotion, and thought about crawling under the table for a much-needed nap. Sleep seemed like the ideal escape hatch right now.
    "Tell Odelia the rest," Gram urged, patting Marcia's shoulder gently.
    Marcia looked at her mother, then at me, her face as pale as fresh milk. For the first time, I saw fear in her eyes—butt-naked fright. I snapped out of my fatigue and waited for what was coming, knowing it was important.
    Marcia Olsen swallowed, then said, "You see, Robbie isn't Peter's. He's John Hollowell's son."