What Remains of Me (31 page)

“Kelly told you this.”

“Yes. She had proof.”

She closed her eyes. Kelly had been living with her father at the time. The two of them weren't even speaking, Rose having thrown Kelly out of the house over her choice of friends, her seventeen-year-old daughter having to deal with this ugly truth on her own . . .
Why didn't she call me? I would have helped her . . .
But then she remembered. Kelly had called her. Three in the morning, she'd been up cleaning, Kelly had called to ask what her and Catherine's last fight had been about, and Ruth had told her about the pregnancy . . . How could Rose have just let Kelly hang up? How could she have been so awful?

“I was gone for weeks,” Zeke said. “On a bender. That's the way I handled things back then. But I came back in time for my father's wrap party.”

“Okay.”

“I planned to kill him. And I did.”

Ruth swallowed. “She wouldn't speak to police, other than to say she did it. She was definite about that. She told me too.”

“Kelly didn't kill him. I showed up at the party and she was there. She only wanted to confront my dad . . . to ask him why he did it. She followed me into the Moroccan room. He was in there, rehearsing his
speech. I'd swiped one of his guns out of his safe. She begged me not to do it. He started saying things to me. Terrible things.” His voice quavered, the strength leaving him, fast as it had come.

Ruth took his hand in hers. “It's okay,” she tried.

“It's not okay. I shot him. Twice in the chest, once in the head. There were screams in the hallway. Footsteps. People heard. Kelly opened the sliding door. She told me to run, so I did. I ran away like a coward. Hid for years. Let her take the rap.”

She thought of Kelly, paralyzed in that mansion on that record-hot night, police cars arriving, sirens blaring, cuffs clamped on her wrists. “You're right,” she whispered. “It isn't okay.”

His head fell back on the pillow. “It's exhausting,” he said.

“What is?”

“Telling the truth.”

She nodded.

“I'm so thirsty,” Zeke said. An empty glass stood on his nightstand, full pitcher next to it. He didn't have the energy to reach it, she knew that. But she couldn't get herself to pour it for him. She glanced at the old tape recorder, cassette whirring and chugging, holding on to their words. “Kelly isn't a killer,” she said. “She never was.”

“No, Ruth,” he said, his voice nothing more than struggling breath. “You raised a very good person.”

Ruth's eyes began to well. She picked up the pitcher, poured Zeke a glass. “Here,” she said. “Drink this.” He didn't take it. He didn't move.

A DEATHBED CONFESSION EXONERATES KELLY MICHELLE LUND

Special to the
Los Angeles Times
by Sebastian Todd

April 26, 2010, Mariposa, Calif.—She served 25 years in prison for the murder of Oscar-nominated director John McFadden. But five years after her release, Kelly Michelle Lund's name—and reputation—have been cleared at last.

With tears in her eyes, Kelly Lund's mother, Defiance commune member Ruth Freed, 67, delivered a taped confession to Mariposa County Police—made by the commune's founder Zeke Freed, 46, shortly before his death due to complications from stage 4 Hodgkin's disease. On the tape, Freed (real name Vincent Vales) reveals himself to be the long-missing son of McFadden and claims to have shot his father following a two-week-long drug bender. “She took the rap for him,” explains Ms. Freed, formerly Rose Lund. “Zeke wanted me to know that my daughter was never a murderer.”

For the past 27 years, Mr. Freed, Ms. Freed, and from a dozen to 20 other rotating residents, all using the same last name, have inhabited 40 acres of land just outside the tiny desert town of Mariposa, Calif. Known by locals as Defiance, it was the location of the 1976 John McFadden–directed western of the same name, which featured an 11-year-old Vincent Vales in a leading role.

The land—a self-sustaining farm on which milk, cheese, fresh eggs, vegetables, and homemade candles are produced and sometimes sold — formerly belonged to the director McFadden, but was quietly transferred to his son's name three years after his death. Vales, who went by a series of aliases, went about legally changing his name to Ezekiel Freed, tilling the previously barren land and recruiting “lost souls” for his “utopian community,” as Ruth Freed puts it. “It was a place to start over. We all desperately needed that. And as the mother of Vincent Vales's most self-sacrificing friend, I was number one on his list. After all, he owed Kelly his life.”

Indeed, before his own communal rebirth, Vincent Vales McFadden was quite a “lost soul” himself—a known drug user with a rap sheet that included three arrests for possession of illegal substances and one for discharging a firearm in a public space.

For years, conspiracy theories have abounded about the troubled teen, with some claiming to have seen him running from McFadden's Mulholland Drive mansion on June 28, 1980, shortly after the fatal shots were fired.

According to Ms. Lund, the dying Mr. Freed summoned her into his quarters when he knew the end was near. “For the first time, he told me his real name,” she says. “All these years, I'd
thought he was a stranger who had seen me on the news during Kelly's trial and somehow sensed I was a kindred spirit. His final gift to me was the most precious of all gifts—the truth.”

In his will, Mr. Freed left the Defiance land to Ms. Freed—who intends to keep the commune going, at least for a while. “I have many dear friends here,” she said. “I wouldn't have them thrown out on the street.”

Kelly Lund was unavailable for comment at press time.

A
s she headed up the 405, Kelly turned off her cell phone. Too many reporters calling, plus, she didn't want to be tracked.

The Breeze Expresso glided over the highway, with the radio off, avoiding the news. The drive went quickly—more like five minutes than twenty-five. She drove through Bellamy's complex, that hive of condos, each one exactly the same as the next.
How easy it would be to get lost in here,
she thought, her eyes tracking a way out. A getaway.

She reached Bellamy's house, the draperies open, showing a hint of her southwestern furniture and, once she reached the curb, the bottom half of
Mona Lisa
.

Kelly left her car and walked up to Bellamy's front door, her mind shifting, turning, aware of the butcher knife weighing down her purse as she rang the bell, blood running hot, angry.

“MY GOD,” SAID BELLAMY WHEN SHE OPENED THE DOOR.
She hadn't changed much. Though she was thinner and a bit more tired and faded than she'd been as a teen, with years of cigarettes etching tiny lines around her lips, Bellamy still put the same amount of effort into her appearance. Kelly
noted the ebony dyed hair, the deep red lips and eyeliner, even though she wasn't yet dressed. She wore a thick, white terry cloth robe. She looked like an actress, shooting a soap opera scene that took place at a luxury spa.

“I need to talk to you,” Kelly said.

Bellamy didn't put up a fight. How could she? Kelly hadn't killed her father. Her mother had—something she'd no doubt known all along. Bellamy let her in. “I guess I should say congratulations,” she said.

“For not killing your father?”

“You didn't hear?”

Kelly frowned at her. “Hear what?”

Bellamy exhaled. “You were cleared of John McFadden's murder. Vee confessed to it.”

“Vee?”

“Deathbed confession. All these years, he's been living with your mom in some cult.”

Kelly stood there for several seconds. Unable to form words. “Can I get you some tea?” Bellamy said.

“You're lying.”

She exhaled. “I don't lie, Kelly,” she said. A lie in and of itself.

She's full of crap. Trying to distract you. Don't take the bait
. “Bellamy, why did you say that to me on the phone about John McFadden?”

“Huh?”

“Why did you say that John McFadden was your father's best friend, nothing more? That was a lie if there ever was one.”

“Shane was in the next room. I thought he might wake up.”

Kelly closed her eyes. She didn't have time to dance around subjects, and even if she did, she'd never been very good at it. “I know what he did to you,” Kelly said. “I know what John McFadden did to you.”

“He didn't do anything to me.”

“Your mother told me,” she said quietly. “I'm sorry. If it was me, I would have wanted him dead too.”

Bellamy let out a long, tired sigh. She collapsed onto the big mission chair. “Kelly, why are you always bringing up ancient history?”

“Twenty-five years in prison will do that to you,” she said. “What I'm trying to say, Bellamy, is I know you planted the lipstick.”

“What?”

“Catherine's fancy lipstick. The thing that made Vee and me go crazy.”

“I found it in the trunk of John McFadden's Porsche.”

“Yeah that's what you said and it was dumb. If he'd killed Catherine in that car, it would have been scrubbed within an inch of its life. And he certainly wouldn't have left a tube of her one-of-a-kind European lipstick in the trunk so you could find it there two years later.”

She shrugged. “If it was so dumb, why did you believe it?”

“Because I was dumb too. I was seventeen and I loved you and I wanted to believe every word you said.”

“Okay, Kelly.” She sighed. “You win.”

“What do I win?
Say it
.”

“Fine. I planted that lipstick in John McFadden's trunk when I was seventeen freakin' years old. Yes, he abused me as a kid. Yes, I hated him, but I didn't think it would drive you so insane
you'd show up at that wrap party
. Jesus you were so wasted. And Vee—”

“Why did you kill Catherine?”

“What?”

“You killed my sister.”

She stared at her, jaw gaping. “I . . . I . . . did
not
. . .”

“The lipstick. It was obvious you planted it. I knew that for years. But here's the big question, Bellamy. How did you get it? Catherine took that stupid tube of European lipstick with her everywhere, that silver tube, limited edition Rouge de la Bohème that nobody knew of
in the States. She guarded it with her life, but when you wanted to make it clear that John McFadden killed her, you had that Rouge de la Bohème at the ready.”

“It wasn't the only tube ever made.”

“It was
hers
. Shane saw you hiding it right after she died. You killed her. And she wasn't just my sister. She was
your sister too
.”

“Oh . . .”

“I found out yesterday. But you've known for longer. Another lie.”

Bellamy's head tilted to the side and she got that look in her eye, that mean glint she used to get when things weren't going her way that would frighten Kelly when they were kids. It didn't now. “You wearing a wire, or what?”

Kelly looked at her. She thought of the knife in her purse and placed her hand on it. “What is this, some cop show? You want to frisk me?”

Bellamy folded her hands in the lap of her puffy spa robe. “No, I don't need to frisk you.”

“Bellamy,” Kelly said. “We're not getting any younger. Doesn't it get tiring, playing mind games all the time?”

Bellamy took a deep breath, in and out, pulled the belt of her robe tighter. “You know when I found out about my dad and your mom?”

Kelly shook her head.

“Thirty-three years ago. Catherine told me.”

“She did?”

“She had this necklace . . . God, I hated that necklace. It was like she was taunting me with it. It was a ‘love gift,' she told me. She said your mom bragged about it.”

Kelly shook her head. “She didn't. My mom hated Catherine wearing it. She didn't want anyone to know.”

“That's not what your sister said.”

“If my mom wanted people to know, how come I thought Jimmy was my birth father until last Tuesday?”

She looked at her. “Well, your sister tortured me with it.”

“How did you even meet her?”

“Through Vee. Jimmy had introduced her to Vee and his father, but I guess her plan all along was to get close to me. And it worked for a while. I liked her at first. Until she started calling herself Hollywood Royalty.”

“When was that?”

“I don't remember. One night, we're all wasted at Vee's dad's mansion and Cat pulls me into the bathroom and drops the bomb. She and I are half sisters. She said your mom told her.”

“She must have worn her down . . .”

“I didn't believe her. I thought my dad was a good guy. But then I asked him.”

“What did he say?”

“He said no at first, but then he admitted it was true and he made me promise never to tell anyone, ever. He said it would kill my mother. Flash-forward to Valentine's Day, Cat was pregnant by McFadden.” She winced. “I thought it was disgusting. But she had some kind of dream of raising her baby in luxury.”

“She thought he'd support her, move in together . . . She went to see him that night.”

“Yes. But then when he told her no way, she came to me.”

“She stole my mother's car.”

“Yes.”

“Left at three in the morning.”

“She drove it to my house. She got me to buzz her in through the gate. She was acting crazy. I'm pretty sure she was on something. She kept saying she was going to wake up my mom and tell her who her real father
was. And how he was going to be a grandfather soon so he'd better pay up . . . She was making all this noise. I said, ‘Cat. Let's talk about this.'” Bellamy's voice broke. A tear trickled down her cheek. “I . . . I . . . sneaked out of my house. I was always doing that. She took your mom's car and I followed her in one of my dad's all the way to Chantry Flats. The whole way there, I was getting angrier and angrier and when we both got out of our cars I couldn't . . . She swore she'd tell my mom . . . I lost control.”

“So you pushed her.”

“We were fighting. I'd never been in a physical fight before, but there we were on the edge of the canyon and I was . . . I was filled with this . . . I couldn't explain it . . .”

“Rage,” Kelly said, because she knew, she understood. “Powerlessness.”

“I punched her in the face. She fell and kind of . . . she tripped.”

Kelly nodded.

“She slipped over the edge of the canyon. She reached for me. I didn't get there in time.”

“I understand,” she said.

“You're different than her, Kelly. I made friends with you because I wanted to find out how much you knew. But you didn't know anything. You didn't play games. You were good.” Bellamy stood up. A tear slipped down her cheek, then another, trailing mascara. “You were my sister,” she said. “My real sister.”

Kelly moved toward Bellamy, toward her outstretched arms. She looked into Bellamy's black sad eyes and wanted to hug her, to put the past in a box and lock it, gloss it all over and move on, the way family does. But something stopped her—a cold, nameless feeling. “I'm sorry, Bellamy,” she said quietly. “I don't believe it was an accident.”

Bellamy's lip trembled. “It wasn't,” she said. Then she pushed Kelly onto the couch, pulled a gun out from her robe, and shot her.