Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
"I thought you ladies might like some tea," she said in a sweet, somber voice with a slight but unfamiliar accent.
"Thank you, Ranita," Zee told her, "but it's time you went home." Zee reached out a hand and softly patted Ranita's arm. "Please don't stay for us. We'll manage."
Ranita bent down and she and Zee exchanged an affectionate hug.
"I'm sorry about your friend," the young woman said, looking at both of us as she unconsciously rubbed her pregnant belly. She wasn't more than twenty-five years old with an open, dark face, just slightly lighter than Zee's. Here and there it was marked with small acne scars. Her eyes were big and soulful. It was easy to see that the comment came from her heart.
"Thank you, Ranita," I said.
After Ranita left, Zee opened up a mint tea bag for me and an Earl Grey bag for herself and placed them in mugs. I added hot water from the carafe. We were sipping tea in silence when Doug and Seth returned. Doug took his place on the other side of the table. Seth sat next to Zee.
We waited expectantly for Doug to speak.
"Well, we spoke to the ex-husband," he began. "His name is Peter Olsen." He looked at Seth before continuing.
"There are some unusual circumstances," Seth added.
"Unusual," I heard myself say. It wasn't in the form of a question, but more of a parroting remark. This whole matter had been unusual from the start. And there was more to come?
"Yes," Doug continued. "Except for a few personal items she bequeathed to you, Zee, and a few others, Ms. London left her entire estate to Mr. Olsen, as trustee for their son."
"But that's not unusual in the case of children," I commented.
"No, Odelia, you're right. It's not. Ms. London's son is twenty years old now. His name is Robert. She gave me that information when she made the will."
"What's unusual," Seth added, hesitating a single heart beat, "is her son thinks she's been dead for years."
"Yes," Doug continued, "and Mr. Olsen wants to keep it that way."
My head was spinning. I took a sip of tea, holding the cup in hands that shook slightly. I felt drained, and last night's lack of sleep was finally catching up to me. Right now, pink tourmaline earrings seemed like a swell idea.
"You okay?" Zee asked me.
"Yeah, I'm fine. A bit thrown off track maybe, but I'm fine." I looked at her and Seth. "Did you two know any of this?"
Both shook their heads.
"Only Doug knew about the son and the ex," Seth explained. "As her attorney, of course it was confidential."
With our collective and varied legal backgrounds, everyone in the room knew all about attorney-client confidentiality.
"But she didn't even tell me about the...well, the other part," Doug said. "Apparently, that was a personal agreement between her and Olsen. He claims she knew that her son believed her dead."
I played with my hair, twisting it around a finger. "Now what?" I asked, feeling totally stumped.
"You, Odelia, are named as the personal representative of Ms. London's estate. But just because she indicated you, it doesn't mean that you have to accept," Doug explained.
It would mean a lot of work. Personal representatives were in charge of winding up all the affairs of the deceased. The law firm would help with the legalities, of course, but the arrangements to dispose of her personal items and business affairs would fall on me. Until yesterday, I had never seen a body or known anyone close to me who had died. Sophie's funeral, if there was one, would be my first.
I seriously questioned if I was up to the task, but knew in my heart that I couldn't refuse. Sophie had done a lot to bolster my self-esteem in the time I'd known her. To refuse her this last favor would be unthinkable on my part. I nodded my consent.
"I'll do it. It's what she wanted."
Zee reached over and put a tender hand on my arm. "Seth and I will help you."
Chapter Three
IT'S AMAZING, THIS profession of serving the dead. Everyone seemed positioned to help, solicitous and sensitive, causing as little emotional friction as possible. The business of death operated like a well-oiled machine, and was as organized as a Fortune 500 company. It seemed more orderly than life, making me wonder why the business of living couldn't run as smoothly as that of death. Maybe if it did, there would be fewer self-inflicted gun shot wounds.
On Tuesday, with a few short phone calls from the office, I was able to set up the memorial service. It would be Friday afternoon at four o'clock. Following the service, everyone would be invited back to the Washingtons' for a light buffet. I also placed an obituary in the
Orange County Register
.
Zee was tasked with calling everyone we knew who would want or would need to know about Sophie's death. I would send e-mails to others tonight after I got home.
Seamus was his arrogant self when I came through the door after work. But he did rub my legs and purr to let me know he'd missed me a little. After receiving some well-placed scratching behind the ears, he followed me into the kitchen, where I made myself a quick sandwich. Carrying my plate and a diet soda, I headed upstairs to my spare bedroom where I kept my computer and desk.
First I checked for phone messages. There were two, one from my stepmother. In her usual disapproving voice, she reminded me to pick up a cake at the supermarket for Mother's Day, less than a week away. It annoyed me to think she felt it necessary to remind me. It annoyed me even more to know I had forgotten, just as she'd expected. I wrote myself a note and stuck it to the front of the computer, then wondered why, knowing full-well she'd call again with another reminder.
The second message was from Glo, Gloria Kendall. She was one of the mainstays of the Reality Check group. Glo is a delightful character with a big heart and cornpone Southern accent. Her voice sounded sweet and kind as she asked if she could help with the upcoming memorial. I made another note, this one reminding me to call tomorrow and accept her offer.
After listening to the messages, I started up the computer. I hadn't been online in over a week and needed to check my e-mail. With a few keyboard strokes, I found myself properly connected to my online provider.
My e-mail box held a whole slew of new correspondence. Most were from Reality Check members, dated within the last two days. Our regulars would have received a call today from Zee, so I wasn't too concerned about responding right away.
Some of the other e-mails were from concerned online friends who hadn't heard from me in a while. These were friends from around the nation who only knew me from the Internet. I wasn't much for the chat room scene, finding it boring. But I loved to play backgammon online, as well as hearts and cribbage, finding the games a nice diversion from television. Over the years I had made many acquaintances this way. My online handle, or screen name, is OdieWanKanobie. Go ahead, laugh...most do.
Reality Check also had a web page which promoted equality for all shapes and sizes. It had been set up and operated by Sophie, and my name and e-mail was one of the contacts for more information. This web page was something else that would need attention. I didn't know much about computers and web design, but Sophie was very organized, so I felt sure Zee and I would find information about the site among her office papers. If not, we knew people who could help sort it out.
Suddenly I found myself wondering about the future of Reality Check. Would the group continue? Sophie London was more than its founder and leader...she was the group's heart.
Instead of answering each and every e-mail inquiry about Sophie individually, I drafted a short note about her upcoming memorial and sent it out to my entire Reality Check address list, as well as a few others who had contacted me through the website. I thought about posting something nice on the web page, but didn't know how. Later, I told myself, it didn't all have to be done tonight.
A hot shower and bed beckoned me. I was still exhausted from lack of sleep. Monday night had been better than Sunday, but only marginally. Another restless night and I would be comatose.
Just as I was about to sign off and answer the pleasant call of hot streaming water, a tone sounded. It was the signal informing me that a new e-mail had just arrived. The sender was someone named Rocknrlr. No one I knew, but I remembered the screen name from one of the earlier e-mail inquiries about Sophie. I had just sent this person memorial information. The subject line for the new e-mail read Suicide????
I opened the e-mail with a tentative click.
"Hello Odelia," it started. "My name is Greg Stevens, a friend of Sophie's. I was one of the people who saw her die."
My right hand trembled. The news stories, both in the papers and on television, had been full of the horror. Some programs had even rustled up people anxious to talk about it. Last night on the eleven o'clock news, I had watched a skuzzy, middle-aged man relay how he had tuned in to Sophie's web site expecting to see some skin, only to watch her blow her brains out. He had been zealous and graphic in his description, like a bystander describing a drive-by shooting or a beating.
Now, here in front of me was another viewer willing to talk. What was the purpose? Titillation? Attention? I didn't know and I didn't care. I felt violated. My memory of Sophie was being ransacked and pillaged, replaced by carnage up close and personal. I didn't want to know about the mechanics of her death. It was gut-wrenching enough to know she wouldn't be coming back. There'd be no more dinners, or discussions about movies, or leaping tall buildings in a single bound for the right of fat girls to wear spandex. It was over, and I had no patience for people interested in the sideshow that was her death.
Still...
I wrapped my fingers tighter on the computer mouse as I read on.
"Sophie spoke a lot about you," the e-mail continued, "so I almost feel like I know you. I don't believe she committed suicide. Do you? If you knew her as well as I think you did, there is no way you could. I'd like to talk to you about it. Please call me at (714)555-1821. Call anytime."
At this point, most people would have made themselves a drink. Wine perhaps, maybe scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon. Not me. Instead, I padded downstairs and rummaged through my refrigerator. In answer to my emotional needs and agitation, I located a box of Girl Scout cookies in my freezer. Thin Mints. My favorites. And they're even better frozen.
Chapter Four
SUICIDES ARE TREATED by the police as homicides, until concluded a suicide. This I discovered from Detective Frye. Hmmm, guess it's true that you do learn something new every day. It only took a few days for the police to determine and declare that Sophia London had died by her own hand. That was about the same length of time it took me to decide to not call Rocknrlr. Instead, I deleted his e-mail and his phone number.
One of the most difficult tasks ahead would be the dismantling and disposal of Sophie's personal things. As soon as the police allowed us into her home, I called her housekeeper, Cruz Valenz, and asked her to meet me and Zee there.
I had requested Friday off as a personal day. At the firm, we each get an allotment of five a year. So far I had taken none. Since I was off work and Zee self-employed, we set the time for Friday at eight in the morning to begin the task. It was the same day as the memorial service.
Cruz was also my housekeeper. A small, stocky woman in her mid-to-late fifties, every other week she shows up at my two-bedroom, two-bath townhouse and works her magic.
To me, having someone clean my home is an outrageous luxury. I certainly am able-bodied enough to do it myself. But earlier this year I came down with a bad flu and was barely able to drag myself between work and home for what seemed like weeks. During that time, Sophie hired Cruz to come in and give my place a good cleaning, top to bottom. She came twice during my illness. By the time I was one hundred percent well, I was also one hundred percent hooked.
Cruz got to Sophie's first. Zee and I found her sitting on the sofa in a crumpled, sobbing heap. She was babbling in what we in Southern California refer to as Spanglish, a mixture of Spanish and English words. Every so often she crossed herself. Usually Cruz is unflappable. As a mother of eight and grandmother of the same, she has seen most everything. Or so we thought.
Sophie lived in a charming single-story house in the older part of Newport Beach, near the border of Costa Mesa. The house was painted blue-gray with a white picket fence and matching shutters. Shrubs and flowers grew along the fence and walkway. It was only a mile or two from my place.
When we arrived, the sliding door to the back patio was wide open, letting fresh spring air into the stuffy house. Past the patio was the small yard. Cruz's husband, Arturo, was Sophie's gardener. He came by every Tuesday to mow and edge the lawn and tend the flowers.
I sat down next to Cruz and put an arm around her. "Are you all right?" I asked.
She wiped her face with a green striped dish towel that she held in her hands. "
Si
," she answered in a shaky voice, then nodded. "Yes," she assured me again, this time in English.
Zee went to look around the house while I calmed Cruz. She walked back toward the living room and signaled to me from the hallway. Her cocoa face looked ashen. It was the first time I'd ever seen her look truly pale.
"I'll be right back," I told Cruz quietly before going to Zee.
"We might want to hire someone else to do the cleaning," she whispered when I reached her.
"I know," I said. "Cruz might not be up to it. She was very attached to Sophie. Been with her for years. We'll hire a service. Or I could even do it."
Zee looked me squarely in the eyes, and held my upper arms in a firm but kindly grip. "That's not what I mean."
She turned her head so her gaze was directed to one of the other rooms. My eyes followed hers and suddenly I knew exactly what she meant. My knees threatened to buckle. Zee tried to guide me back to the living room where Cruz was still sitting.
"No," I said weakly, slipping away from her and heading toward the room Sophie used as an office. "I want to see it."
"Don't do this, Odie," Zee begged. I knew she was especially concerned when she referred to me as Odie. Only her children had been granted special permission to call me that annoying nickname. Not even my family dared.
"No, Odelia, don't," I heard Cruz get out between sobs. "It's an evil place."
Ignoring them both, I walked slowly down the hallway heading toward the back of the house. The master bedroom, with its private bath, was at the other end of the hall toward the front of the house. I passed the guest bedroom and the second bathroom. Glancing briefly into both, I could see they were undisturbed. Each was immaculate and beautifully decorated in designer prints and accessories.
The last room at the end of the hallway was the third bedroom, the one she had used as an office. I opened the door, which Zee had apparently pulled shut, and gasped.
The furnishings were just as I had seen them many times before. The L-shaped desk took up most of the room, with the main arm facing the door. On it were her computer monitor, keyboard, and various papers. On the shorter section, which was against the wall, sat the fax machine and printer. Across from the desk, on the same wall as the door, was the closet, its white slatted folding doors ajar. The wall to the right of the door held a large window. Under the window was a stylish loveseat, with a small table at one end. A short bookcase was behind the desk. The same photos and prints decorated the walls and surfaces as when I was last here.
What was different was the blood.
There wasn't as much on the back wall as I had expected, just a light spray tattooing the book case and Van Gogh posters directly over it. The real eye popper was the chair. We were told she had been found slumped backward in it. It was a light blue swivel desk chair with short arms and a high back, a costly lumbar type, adjustable to fit the various curves of the back.
Blood must have leaked from the exit wound at the back of her head. The high back of the chair had been soaked, making an overlay of dark brown on top of the light blue tweed. There was blood on the carpet, too. A pool, though not particularly large because the chair's fabric had acted like a huge sponge, mopping up Sophie's life as it had drained from her. An odor of musty metal hung in the air.
Seeing Sophie's body on the monitor at the coroner's had made her death seem unreal and the corpse staged. This brought it home.
On wobbly legs, I turned around and closed the door behind me. Zee was right. We needed to hire a cleaning crew for this. The chair could be easily tossed and the carpet and walls cleaned. But not by us, not by any of us who knew and loved her. Some things are just best left to strangers.
I don't know how long I spent slumped on the toilet in the guest bathroom with a cool cloth pressed against my face, but it was long enough for Zee to knock on the door and check on me.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," I answered weakly.
She opened the door and looked me over with great concern. I was thankful she didn't say, "I told you so."
"When you're ready," she said gently, "we have company. But don't rush it. You're going to need your strength for this." She started to close the door, then stopped. "And I've sent Cruz home. Didn't think you'd mind."
I shook my head, then freshened the cloth and reapplied it to my forehead.
After resting for another few minutes, I joined Zee and our mystery guest in the living room. As soon as I saw who it was, I wanted to run out the back door and abandon Zee to her own devices.
"This is Iris," Zee said, introducing us. "Iris..."
"Somers," the woman added. "I live next door."
Iris Somers obviously did not recognize me. We had only met once, and that was in the driveway one night when I came over to visit Sophie. But I could never forget her. She was extremely memorable. And not just from my own one encounter, but from the countless stories Sophie told over coffee.
Iris Somers sat in one of the side chairs upholstered to match the sofa. With her body perched on the edge, she reminded me of a sparrow, nervous and fragile, waiting for a cat to pounce. Her eyes darted with edginess as she spoke. Surprisingly, her voice was clear and softly demanding in its tone. Age was difficult to guess. Her make-up free face looked about mid-to-late thirties, but her posture and clothing suggested elderly. She had dark hair laced with gray, and wore it long and pulled back into a pony tail. In her hands she held a small umbrella, nothing more really than a child's parasol. It was covered in aluminum foil both top and underside and looked like a personal satellite dish.
"I can't stay," she informed us, holding the parasol open and moving it slowly. First up and over her head, then back in front of her. Then she took the same calculated route again, as if sweeping the air with a homemade metal detector.
I sat down on the sofa and looked at Zee. She was standing near a curio cabinet, fussing with some knick knacks. I could see her lips were pressed tight, her eyes crinkled. I knew she was intentionally not looking at me or Iris.
"I just came by," Iris said, continuing her sweep of the air, changing the pattern of the parasol's orbit ever so slightly, "to see what you were going to do about the beams."
"The beams?" I asked.
"Yes, of course, the beams."
She pointed to a small gizmo positioned on the wall near the door. I recognized it as a sensor for the alarm system. It was a motion detector that could set off the home security system if activated. There were several positioned in the living and kitchen areas of the house, as well as sensors on the windows and outside doors. I remembered when Sophie had had the alarm installed. It was just a few months ago. Right now the alarm was turned off.
"Now that Miss London is gone, I'll expect you to do something about them. She never did. Just ignored my complaints. Didn't care a bit that I was sick and injured."
"I don't understand," I said to her. "What was she supposed to do? Does the alarm go off and disturb you?"
Iris Somers gave off a slight huffing sound that I assumed was to let me know she thought I was stupid. She stopped her parasol's travels just long enough to inaudibly convey the message.
"Security systems," she said, pointing again to the sensor, "give off rays of energy that are damaging."
Sighing, I shut my eyes. My friend was dead. My memory had just been imprinted with the sight of her blood. This was not a good day to be talking to me about beams, rays, or any such crap as that. A worse day to be speaking to me as if I were a five-year-old.
"So what does that have to do with you, Ms. Somers?" I could hear the slight edge to my voice. "These sensors are inside the house, nowhere near you." I was trying to be patient, really working hard at it.
Missing the tone in my voice, Iris continued. She gave me another deep huff. Zee, though, didn't mistake the tightness in my words. She stopped moving bric-a-brac and turned to fully listen.
"These beams are very harmful. Don't you know that?" Iris was becoming agitated. "It doesn't matter that they're inside. They still shoot out into my property. They strike my body and my head, causing a great deal of discomfort. I have suffered considerable harm ever since Miss London installed her security system."
"You do know Sophie London is dead, don't you?" Zee asked. Her words were low and calm, but I detected a strong note of sarcasm.
"Yes. Exactly my point." Iris pointed her umbrella first at me, then at Zee. "And I don't want to be next. Those electrical rays struck her over and over, like arrows, until she was driven insane. That system caused her to shoot herself."
"Ms. Somers," I began, trying to rein in my anger and disbelief. Getting up, I went to the front door and opened it. "I can assure you that this harmless security system has no bearing on the death of our friend or on your own discomfort. Please seek mental health assistance. You obviously need it."
Iris Somers correctly read the open door and my suggestion of counseling as an invitation to leave. She stood up and, with her parasol sweeping about, made her way out the door.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," she said, turning to stand on the small outside landing to address me. "You'll be hearing from my attorney."
"Great. Call her husband." I jerked a thumb at Zee. "He's an attorney. He'd just love to hear what you have to say."
Iris Somers had just started to say something else, her words accompanied by a pointed finger, when the door slipped from my hand and slammed in her face. Since we didn't hear a scream from the other side, I felt it safe to assume she was standing far enough away to avoid a broken nose.
Honest. The door just slipped.