California Girl

27

THE NEXT MORNING Andy stood on the porch of 1303 North Bayfront, Balboa Island, Newport Beach. He knocked again. The sliding door was open and a cool breeze lifted the curtains. He watched a stout Mexican woman lean a mop against a wall and come slowly toward him down a hallway.

Friday, October 18. Seventeen days after the murder.

Three days after reading Janelle Vonn’s letters about Roger Stoltz.

Two days after his signed editorial in the Orange County Journal accused his older brother of incompetence. The deputies in the Sheriff’s Department pressroom earlier this morning had ignored him. But carried on with the other reporters as usual. Andy had never been generally dismissed and didn’t care for the feeling. It went without saying that his department sources had dried up.

Andy introduced himself in Spanish to the cleaning lady. Said he was Mike Jones, one of Representative Stoltz’s associates in the American Congress. Her name was Marci. He made small talk about the weather and maybe renting the place, because Mr. Stoltz had told him what a nice apartment it was. She didn’t know a Mr. Stoltz. She knew Maid in America cleaning service because she’d been working for them for four years.

She smiled, incisors framed in gold. Stood aside. Andy said he’d be quick. She could keep on working and he’d be gone in just a few minutes.

Downstairs were the living room, kitchen, and two small bedrooms that shared a bath. Sparsely furnished. Nice maple floors. Throw rugs and prints of watercolors on the walls.

Andy pictured Janelle here. He unfolded the copy of the letter written in this apartment just over a year ago.

September 10, 1967

Dear Lynette,

Roger gave me the place in Newport full-time. Practically made me move in. For now I guess it’s okay. I don’t like owing him even though he says I don’t. His wife is sweet. Troy of the cops says I have some more money coming, but he’s usually slow with it. Says his department might have an apartment in Laguna they could let me have awhile. I want MY place.

You can see the sailboats from the bedroom window. Roger thinks this is a healthier place for me to be than Laguna. He doesn’t like all the drug things going on there. The long hair scares him. You know how old guys are.

I’m sitting on the bed upstairs while I write this letter. Hard to believe I’m eighteen already. Guess I should be happy but I’m not. I imagine me with a different face. And different hair. And a different name. And a different story behind me. I still love music. Went up to Laguna last night and met that LSD guy at a party. They offered me some and I said no, maybe some other time. Kinda scared of it. Lots of weird people around.

Upstairs Andy stepped into a big bedroom blasted with morning sunlight. Newport Harbor glittered beyond the picture window. Small sailboats rocked in the bright sunshine. The water was polished indigo with a V of white wake widening toward Andy.

White carpet. White walls. White curtains. Prints of flowers and cottages in white frames. Looked like something furnished for an older woman, thought Andy.

The single bed was neatly made. Pink quilt and matching pillowcases and a Raggedy Ann doll upright against one pillow. A low dresser with a mirror. A cane-back rocker. A few pairs of pants and some blouses in the closet. Price tags still on them. One pair of white sneakers with yellow psychedelic daisies on them. Andy turned one over. Never worn. Some T-shirts and tie-dyed stuff in the dresser. Brand new.

Andy opened the bathroom medicine cabinet: deodorant, a can of the same hairspray Meredith’s mother had used. Brand-new bottle of aspirin.

And it hit him that someone had furnished the place the way they thought Janelle would like. But she didn’t want a Raggedy Ann doll or old ladies’ hairspray. Didn’t want this place at all. Her letter to Lynette had said as much.

He found Marci downstairs and asked her how long she’d been cleaning the place.

“Since September, one year ago. Every week.”

“This was Janelle’s apartment, right?”

“Yes. She was nice and spoke Spanish very well. I saw her only two times. Once when I first started. Then a few days before she died. I work here on Fridays.”

Andy nodded. Noted the dishless kitchen counters. The shining sink. The unblemished floor.

“You are not what you say you are,” said Marci. She shook her head but looked down.

Andy admitted he was a reporter. And a friend of Janelle’s. This felt odd. He’d never considered himself a friend when she was living.

“Have you done the kitchen for today?”

“No.”

“Are there ever any dishes to do?”

“No.”

“What about the bed? Is it ever used?”

“Once,” she said. “Friday after she died.”

“The landlord is Mr. Stoltz?”

“I don’t know his name. Slender with a mustache. Thirty-five years. Maybe more. He said nothing to me but hello and goodbye.”

“When?”

Marci looked up at the ceiling while she thought. “Two Fridays ago.”

Two days after they found her in the packinghouse, thought Andy. “And the bed had been used?”

Marci blushed. “Yes,” she said. “It was not made. The sheets and pillowcases were gone. The bedspread and blanket were still here.”

He asked her what the landlord had done when he came here that day.

“He looked out the window upstairs. I was cleaning the bathroom and pretended I didn’t see him. He wiped his eyes.”

Andy thought of the secret man Janelle kept from Jesse Black. Stoltz? Almost certainly. Thought of Janelle’s letter to her sister. Roger doesn’t want anything in return except for me to be cool about it.

Really.

His heart sped up a beat when he remembered the scratches and the scab on Roger Stoltz’s hand that night at his parents’ house. After the funeral.

Janelle, pregnant by Stoltz?

Threatening to keep the child and demanding money?

Offering an abortion for a price?

An argument? A fight?

Jesse Black had said that Janelle was scheduled for an abortion.

Had childless Stoltz wanted her to keep their baby, and she refused?

Andy asked Marci how she knew that Janelle had been murdered.

“Her picture was in the Spanish paper. They called her the Queen with No Head.”

ANDY WENT through a door in the kitchen and into the garage. Small, for one car only. Dank and cool and he could smell the bay stronger. Noted that nobody could see him here if the big overhead garage door was shut. Tried to push it open with his foot but the outside latch was fastened. Found a light switch and turned it on.

Two red Schwinn ten-speeds hung end to end on brackets on one wall. Andy ran his finger along a crossbar. New paint shiny where the dust was gone. Below them a two-person Sears Whirlwind sailboat, tilted lengthwise. A sail-rigged mast hung above the bikes. Two orange life jackets hung from the pedals.

Toys, he thought. Toys for lovers. Never used and left behind.

He heard Lynette’s words: Even in the letters I can tell he wanted her for the same things any man would want her for. But she never did it with him. At least that’s what she wrote, and I believe her.

The concrete floor was clean. Old oil stains, faint and cut by bleach. Andy thought of Janelle’s powder blue Volkswagen. Also provided, along with the apartment and other gifts, by humanitarian Roger Stoltz.

Who was an honored friend of his father.

Who could make his mother smile.

Who fixed David with a job out of seminary and Nick with a letter from Dick Nixon and Clay with a CIA scholarship to a language school the Beckers probably couldn’t even afford and got Clay killed anyway.

Trouble was, Stoltz was in Washington, D.C., the night Janelle died. At least that’s what Stoltz’s congratulatory telegram on breaking the story had implied.

Back in the apartment Andy was surprised to find the telephone working. But why not, he wondered. Everything else was in running order. Even if the girl this was all for lived somewhere else entirely.

Representative Roger Stoltz’s office in Tustin picked up on the second ring. Pleasant female voice.

“This is Andy Becker of the Orange County Journal. We’re doing a story on Congressman Stoltz and need to confirm that he was here in Southern California on Tuesday, October the first, and attended a Republican Party fund-raiser hosted by John Wayne.”

“Oh. Let me see, Mr. Becker. Just a moment.”

Andy stood there twirling the coiled phone cord. Heard paper rustling. Heard Marci running a vacuum upstairs. Then the woman came back on the line.

“No, Mr. Becker. Roger was in Washington that day. The Un-American Activities House Committee had hearings and Roger is a member.”

“Right,” said Andy. “The Commies.”

“Yes, Roger understands that the Communist threat is real. He has proof that there are still some American citizens working against their own government. Some are involved in espionage, others spew propaganda and dissent. By the way, I enjoy your articles very much.”

Andy went upstairs again. Looked out the picture window and heard Marci banging around in the bathroom.

He asked her if she’d ever seen Janelle and the landlord together here.

“No,” she said. “I only saw her two times. Once was a year ago and once was three Fridays ago.”

“What was Janelle doing?

“The first, she was putting some clothes in the dresser. Second time, she was sitting at the kitchen table downstairs with a man. He was very large and had long blond hair and a broken smile. He wore a bright shirt with palm trees on it and short pants and huaraches with car tires for a bottom. Like they make in Mexico.”

“What is a broken smile?”

“His teeth were broken. A little. Not all the way.”

Cory Bonnett, thought Andy. “What was his name?”

“He didn’t speak to me. She blushed when I came in and didn’t look in my eyes. They looked like they were very…exhausted.”

“And this was when?”

“Friday. Before she died.”

ANDY DROVE to the RoMar Industries headquarters in Tustin. It was across town from the SunBlesst packinghouse, part of a light commercial zone up by State 55.

Marie Stoltz led Andy through the offices, warehouse, and shipping/receiving.

“None of the manufacturing is done here,” she said. She was dark-haired and pretty in a delicate way. Very small. Made Andy think of a Japanese doll. “The process is time-consuming and produces steam and noise. So we do the juicing, distilling, and blending up in Long Beach.”

“Interesting.”

“I’m happy that the Journal wants to do another story on us. Though I wonder why their crack crime reporter is writing it.”

She smiled sweetly.

Andy’s father came bustling into the office from the warehouse. Sleeves up, brow furrowed, clipboard in hand. He still wore the Irish Setters Andy remembered from his childhood. Still had the straight-backed alertness and sharp eyes that had helped him be such a good shotgunner and fisherman.

His eyes widened when he saw Andy. “Son, everything okay?”

“Journal wants another RoMar story,” said Andy. “Focus this time is on Marie, running the company while her husband saves the world from Communism.”

Andy smiled. Got a small one from Marie and none from his father.

“The label machine’s on the fritz again,” he said. “Just in time for the late morning run.”

“Maybe Rollins can fix it,” said Marie.

“I think Rollins broke it,” said Max. “I’ll have to shut down, see what I can do with it. If I can’t get it running right, we’re calling Federated Label again. If they can’t get here today this time, I’ll line up someone else.”

“Thanks, Max. You know those machines drive me loony.”

Max nodded and pursed his lips. Shook Andy’s hand. “Duty calls,” he said. “Nice seeing you, Andy. I’d like to talk to you about your piece on Nick when you have the time.”

Then he hustled back out, hailing Rollins before the door had even shut.

Andy watched him go. He had never realized until this moment how desperate his father was for distraction. Max wasn’t that way before Clay. Before Clay, Max did what needed doing so he could do what his heart enjoyed. Hunting. Fishing. Reading. Banging around the kitchen with his wife. Playing some catch or basketball with his sons. But now, Andy saw, he’d do anything to keep from having to deal with what was inside him. He’d take some lousy job to prevent Marie from behaving like the business fool she almost certainly was. Keep the dollars rolling in for a patronizing friend like Stoltz. Pretend RoMar Industries and some label machine and a guy named Rollins were worth more than about thirty seconds of his life. Drink half a quart of gin a night and God knew how many beers.

“He’s a good man,” said Marie.

“Thank you.”

“Five years since Clay.”

“Almost.”

“He’s lucky to have you.”

“So,” said Andy, taking out his notebook. “What prepared you to run a multimillion-dollar business?”

“Nothing,” she said. “All I had was a home ec certificate from a junior college before I married Roger. Here, I just basically do what Roger says. Most of it’s common sense. Building up a company like this, I couldn’t do. I’m not smart or imaginative enough. But once it’s up and running, well, it’s just lots of hours and details and worry. I’ve gotten migraines all my life. But more now. So often, it seems.”

Through the cracked back door he could see his father standing by a large shiny machine. Face-to-face with Rollins, no doubt. Hands on his hips. Leaning forward. Voice loud. Rollins shaking his head but not backing off.

Andy wanted to go flying through the air and spear Rollins like he’d speared Lenny Vonn.

Marie was watching, too. “It probably looks like Max is here to prop me up. But I help him, also. That’s why Roger set it up like this. It hurt him, what happened to your brother. And he sees what it did to Max and your mother. Excuse me. They’ll stop acting like boys if I wander over.”

BY THE TIME Andy was halfway through his interview, Marie Stoltz was concussed by headache. She offered him a smile that made him wince. She tried to talk about the growing “environmental movement,” which favored organic products like Orange Sunshine.

He thought she might vomit. He was going to ask some personal questions, such as her idea of trust in a marriage to a man who spent a lot of time three thousand miles from home. Maybe get her to corroborate that he was in Washington on that night. But he couldn’t. He talked her into letting him just walk around on his own, get the feel of the place, snap a few pictures. She shut the office door when he went out.

Andy walked the labeling floor and the warehouse, the shipping and receiving docks. Chatted with the marketing people and the salespeople and the R & D people. Rollins looked like a kicked dog. Max strode between the plant buildings in straight lines, clipboard tight, his steps spaced for best distance and speed. He nodded to his son.

Andy took some pictures but nothing the Journal could really use. If he did manage to get Teresa to approve a business-section puff piece on RoMar Industries, it almost certainly wouldn’t require art. But it didn’t hurt to have some file shots, just in case something interesting were to take place at RoMar.

It was a small miracle he’d even found the time to come here, with all the extra work Jonas was dumping on him. Since Nick’s penmanship demo, Dessinger was loading him up with the worst assignments-soft features, society events, charity fund-raisers, the damned art museums. Teresa tried to intervene but Jonas had rank.

He snapped the case back over his camera. Squinted up at the midday sky. He had come here for information but he had failed to find it. He’d wanted to get closer to Roger Stoltz. To see if Stoltz knew some things about the murder of the girl he was supporting. To see what Marie knew.

Hell, he’d wanted to shove Representative (R) Stoltz of California against a wall, grab his throat, and make him confess that he had murdered his mistress.

Even though he’d been three thousand miles away the night she died.

Like he was right now.

So why do all this? Because Andy didn’t like him? Because Stoltz was one of the few people who could make Monika smile? Because Stoltz had capitalized on the death of the orange groves, which had helped ruin Max, then employed him? Because he’d gotten Clay to join some heartless government agency that let him get killed in a worthless jungle? Because the good-looking, smooth-talking, vote-begging phony had had the balls to give Janelle Vonn money and a car and a place to live? Because Roger Stoltz had had the balls to offer her something real while he, Andrew James Becker, had been too timid and guilty to even call her when she’d asked him to?

Andy sighed and shook his head. Watched his father march from R & D to Admin.

Leave it to Nick now, he thought. He had given Nick everything he’d learned. Everything he’d seen. And read and heard and thought. From the fact that Janelle was a paid Sheriff’s Department informant to the wound marks on Stoltz’s hand. From Jesse Black’s story of Janelle’s pregnancy to the mystery man. From the guy with the FBI plates searching Janelle’s cottage to the letters she’d written to Lynette. And now Andy could tell Nick about Stoltz and the bedsheets missing from the apartment Stoltz had offered to Janelle. An apartment in which Janelle didn’t play house. Not with Stoltz, anyway. Where four days before she was murdered Janelle had sat at the kitchen table with a man suspected of two murders and who had beaten his own parents half to death. An apartment where, three days after she was murdered, Stoltz had stood at a window and wiped his eyes.

Three thousand miles away.

Too bad.

Andy told himself that he had tried. It had felt right. Maybe for the wrong reasons. Now Nick could have it all.

On his way out he knocked on the office door. His father told him to come in. Max was sitting in Marie’s chair and tiny Marie was curled in his lap like a child. She cracked open one eye and gave Andy a wily, frightened look.

“Leave your visitor’s badge in the box on the counter, son.”

He had just started up his ice blue Corvair when he remembered something for the first time in eight years. Thanksgiving, 1960. David home from San Anselmo’s, Clay with his smart friend Eileen. Nick and Katy. The Stoltzes and three Vonns. Meredith.

They were all in the family room for after-dinner drinks and conversation. Wine racing in his head and lust charging almost uncontrolled through him every time he looked at Meredith Thornton or brushed against her.

Roger and Marie Stoltz were seated in Max and Monika’s blue and white recliners. Lynette and Janelle Vonn were brought to them like babes to Jesus.

What Andy remembered now, for the first time, was the look on Roger Stoltz’s face as he touched Janelle Vonn’s pudgy eleven-year-old’s arm and smiled down at her. An unmistakable expression, thought Andy. The same one his father had with Marie.

Pity.