Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
Chapter Seven
"WHO'S MR. STEVENS?" Seth asked me on the way back to the house.
"A friend of Sophie's who e-mailed me this week. He said he doesn't think Sophie killed herself. By the way that guy behaved, I thought it might be him."
I sighed with relief when Seth dropped the issue.
Most everyone was already at the Washingtons' by the time we got there, but no one had started eating. Pastor Hill was holding the blessing until we arrived.
Usually when I'm stressed, I'll eat everything not nailed down. Only small children and family pets are safe. And okra. I won't eat okra under any circumstances. But there are times when my emotional arc runs so close to the sun that I can't eat a thing. Now was one of those times.
People lined up at the catered buffet to sample honey-baked ham, smoked salmon, and turkey breast, along with various salads. An assortment of desserts, all lovingly brought by friends, were set on another smaller table along with coffee and soft drinks. I picked at a few appetizers and raw vegetables before giving up.
Seth and Zee have a large, lovely home with a roomy backyard, perfect for entertaining. Small tables and chairs were placed outside on the patio and along the pool edge. Many folks were also gathered inside in the living room and den. After making the rounds dictated by courtesy, I took a soda and escaped to the table farthest from the house. Hannah and Jacob, Zee's children, were already seated there eating their dinners. It was now early evening and the air was beginning to cool down nicely.
"Hey, Aunt Odie," Jacob greeted me, his mouth half full.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," his sister scolded. She rolled her eyes at me. "It's so rude."
Jacob made a face. "It's so ruuuuuuuuuude," he mimicked, then went back to shoveling food from his heaping plate into his fourteen-year-old body.
He was a younger version of his father, and it was easy to see that, in a few years, he would gain the same height and solid build to his body. Both children had their mother's beautiful smile.
Hannah picked at her food. "Aunt Odie, why would your friend kill herself?"
"Mama said it's a sin," Jacob chimed in. "No one but the Lord should take a life."
"I don't know why Sophie killed herself," I answered truthfully.
Maybe she didn't
, I said to myself silently.
Hannah sighed. I could see recent events were bothering her. "I met her a few times with Mama. She didn't seem sad."
"She didn't seem sad to me, either, sweetie. And I knew her very well."
"She didn't look like a porn star, either," Jacob said as he took his last bite.
"Jacob!" his sister snapped.
"Well, she didn't."
"So, Jacob," I asked, "you've seen lots of porn stars?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he buried his face in his cup, pretending to drink, avoiding my eyes.
"Maybe, Hannah, we should do a little search and seizure of your brother's room."
She snapped her fingers in the air. "Just give me the word and I'm there."
"I swear, Hannah," Jacob said, getting worked up. "You touch my room and Pastor Hill will be saying a few words over you."
"I'm gonna tell Mama you said that."
"Kids, kids, kids," I said, trying to bring order to the situation. "Calm down. No one's telling. No one's searching. We were just teasing."
We moved on to the topic of school, which I thought would be a safe discussion. In a few minutes the bickering started up again. This time it centered on a boy who Hannah liked. Jacob thought he was a butthead, and said so. I was so busy soothing teenage ruffled feathers, I didn't notice someone approaching our table. Jacob saw him first.
"Hi," he said to the man.
"Hi back," the man answered.
I turned around to see a man in a wheelchair. A nice looking man, a very handsome thirty-something actually. I remembered seeing him briefly at the memorial service. But like many in attendance, he was unknown to me.
"I hope I'm not intruding," he said.
"No, not at all," I answered, giving him a slightly embarrassed grin. "We're just having a little family discussion."
The kids didn't seem to recognize him, either, so I made introductions.
"This is Hannah and Jacob Washington. Zee and Seth's children."
He held out his hand and the kids politely took turns shaking it and saying a proper hello.
"And I'm Odelia Grey."
He took my hand, shook it, and held on, looking straight into my eyes. "I know. I'm Greg Stevens."
I withdrew my hand quickly, as if burned. Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit. Here was the man himself, and it wasn't the little guy at the service.
I fought the urge to laugh out loud, to cackle insanely until someone subdued me with chemicals for my own safety. From start to finish, today had been too much. I wanted to put some of it aside, on account so to speak, to deal with later when my emotional reserves weren't so spent. But I had no idea when that time would be, so I gathered myself together for the next round.
"We need to talk, Odelia," the man named Greg Stevens said to me.
As if on cue, the kids rose to leave. A part of me wanted to tell them to stay, but I knew that eventually this man and I would have to speak. I also knew that the children were upset enough, and there was no need for them to hear this discussion.
"I have some homework to do," Hannah said. She leaned over on her way by me and gave me a kiss on my cheek before departing. "Hang in there."
"Thanks, sweetie."
"Later, Aunt Odie," Jacob said, walking away with his empty plate.
"You too big now to give me a kiss?"
Jacob walked back, rolling his eyes for Greg's benefit. Greg chuckled. Dutifully, the boy bent down and pecked me on the cheek. I pecked him back. He lingered, his mouth close to my ear. I smelled after-shave, and wondered to myself when had he gotten old enough to wear it.
"We're not gonna find out you're some sorta closet porn star, too, are we?" the boy whispered in my ear.
"What?" I sputtered, then realized I had given him exactly the response he wanted.
Grinning, Jacob walked away, leaving me flushed and speechless. And alone with Greg Stevens.
"That must've been some remark," Greg commented with a smile.
"Some days, I just want to beat that boy. Out of love, of course."
"Easy to see they love you back. Have you known them long?"
"Jacob was a gleam in his daddy's eye when I met Zee. Hannah was just a toddler. They're almost like my own. Sorry you walked into that family bickering. They go out of their way to torment each other." I fidgeted, not sure what to say.
Greg laughed. "Siblings. It's natural. I have a brother and a sister. I'm in the middle, literally and figuratively. You from a big family?"
I thought about that. The anticipation of another agonizing Mother's Day sat in my stomach like mayonnaise in the sun.
"No," I admitted. "I'm an only child. My parents divorced when I was about thirteen. My father remarried a woman with two kids who are much older than me."
"My parents have been together forty-two years," he said. "And amazingly, they still seem nuts for each other. I've been lucky. You get along well with your step-family?"
I thought about it before answering. "If you asked them, they'd say we get along fine. As for me, I keep my mouth shut for the purpose of getting along. I keep the peace for the sake of my father."
"At great expense to yourself, no doubt."
I was tempted to ask Greg Stevens if he was a shrink, but held back. He certainly knew how to get to the meat of a matter and how to make someone comfortable enough to spill their guts. Under the stress of recent events, I was ready to lay back on a couch and talk over my problems for hours. I wondered how much this man would charge, and if I had enough in my savings to cover it.
"I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss my childhood," I said instead.
He shook his head. "No, I didn't. I came to say goodbye to a good friend." There was a pause. "And I came to meet you."
Again, a quiet lingered between us. It wasn't an awkward silence, but, strangely, a comforting one. There was definitely something soothing about this man. He seemed so self-assured, so genuine. I looked him over, wondering what his relationship was with Sophie. Was he yet another secret?
He was definitely attractive. Not beautiful like Hollowell, but good looking in an athletic, wholesome way. Except for his lifeless legs, his body was toned and strong, especially his upper body. His hair was medium brown, worn on the long side, but well cut and styled. His eyes were hazel and sparkled with life, in spite of his obvious grief. Dressed in a nice shirt and lightweight sports jacket, he looked successful but not wealthy. Independent rather than mainstream.
"You really saw her die?" There it was, the bonus round question.
"Yes, I did. I was the one who called nine-one-one."
Detective Frye had told us that one of the watchers of the web site had made the emergency call. I found myself giving quick thought to who this man was and why he was watching Sophie that morning.
"You didn't really know her, did you, Mr. Stevens? Not in person anyway."
Bottom line, this was a paying customer of an adult web site. He wasn't a friend of Sophie's; he was a guy who watched her sexually. Suddenly, I wasn't feeling all that warm and fuzzy about Greg Stevens.
"No, unfortunately, I never met her in person. But I knew her well."
I leaned in toward him, not wanting my voice to carry. "I seriously doubt if jacking off to an image constitutes knowing someone."
I got up to leave, but he reached out a hand to stop me.
"You're right about that, Odelia. It doesn't." His voice was firm but kind. "But I spoke with Sophie at least once a week by phone. And not phone sex, either, so don't even go down that road. I worked with her on her web site. This is the cyber age. You don't need to meet someone in person to know them and work with them. We were friends, just like you and she were. We just never went shopping together."
I winced at the mention of shopping.
Shaking his hand off my arm, I started, once more, to walk away. My face burned with frustration sprinkled with anger. I wondered how many more of Sophie's cyber fans were here, eating, talking, and discussing her like they truly knew her.
"I knew she had a kid," he called after me. "And I know who Hollowell is."
I stopped dead in my tracks. My head swam with confusion, pushing aside the anger for the moment. He knew she had a son, but I didn't. Why would she tell him that and not me? Or even Zee? For some reason, Sophie didn't trust us. That hurt. I wanted to keep walking, but the second half of his remark prevented me. He knew Hollowell, too. My personal feelings were fighting with my curiosity. I was never going to get to the bottom of this if I behaved this way. Then I remembered that Sophie had left this man something in her will. Reluctantly, I walked back to the table and sat down.
His remark had been used as bait, and I was biting. I only hoped I didn't wind up dipped in corn meal and pan fried.
"Mr. Stevens, I don't know what your game is, but like you, I have doubts about the suicide."
"There's no game, Odelia. We both loved Sophie. Neither of us believe her capable of suicide. Give me a chance to help."
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a business card, and passed it to me. It was for a business in Huntington Beach called Ocean Breeze Graphics. The card said "Gregory W. Stevens, Owner."
"That's my company. Check it out, then call me. And please tell the Washingtons thanks for their hospitality."
He turned his chair around and started off. I didn't make any attempt to stop him, but, instead, watched as he wheeled out the back way and started down the driveway.
Chapter Eight
THE SOUND OF breaking waves filled my ears as I walked along the street from the public parking lot. On the other side, across Pacific Coast Highway, was the beach. I was searching the store fronts for a restaurant. Finally, I spotted it—The Gull. It was a small café with most of their seating outside. Greg Stevens saw me and waved.
It was eight in the morning. Way too early for me to be up and out of the house on a normal Saturday, but my life was anything but normal these days. I was meeting Zee and Cruz later to continue sorting and packing Sophie's things. Glo was coming by to help as well.
On my way home from the memorial the night before, I had stopped by Sophie's house. The cleaning company had promised to send a crew by on Saturday morning to clean the back room and the kitchen. I had to pay extra for the Saturday service, but considered it necessary. I made the arrangements with the owner of the company. After describing the delicate nature of the job, he tacked on another premium, saying he would have to send special people.
Tomorrow would mark a week since Sophie's death. By the time a month passes, it will seem as if she'd never existed, except in our memories.
I hadn't realized how truly simple and small our lives were until now. Sophie was forty-seven years old when she died. Her forty-eighth birthday would have been in a few weeks. The fact that, even after nearly forty-eight years, an entire life could be sorted, labeled, and packed in the span of a few weekend days astounded me. A whole lifetime processed and wrapped like sliced turkey roll sandwich meat. When the package is empty, we just move on to the maple flavored ham until that, too, is used up. I found it depressing to think about disposable humanity. It felt too much like disposable diapers.
I had walked around Sophie's house the night before, touching and caressing her things. They were all that was left of her. In a moment of courage I went to the back office and opened the door slowly. I reached in first, felt the switch on the wall near the door, and snapped on the light.
The chair, stained with the dark pattern of Sophie's blood, stood as a silent memorial.
Later last night, after I was home, I had called Greg Stevens and set up a meeting. It had been almost midnight, but he picked up the phone on the first ring. I didn't care how late it was, I had to make the appointment before I chickened out. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he didn't seem surprised at all by my call.
HE HELD OUT his right hand to me as I approached the table. I took it and shook politely, but not before noticing a very large Golden Retriever by his side. As I've said before, I'm not much of an animal person. The dog came forward and intently smelled my legs, which were encased in cotton leggings. I must have seemed nervous because Greg pulled him back.
"Wainwright, down," he commanded.
The dog immediately sank to the pavement next to his master. I was impressed.
"Sorry, but he loves new people," he said, apologizing.
"He must smell my cat."
"Then that explains it," Greg said with a big grin. "Wainwright loves cats. Though most of them have heart attacks when they see him galloping up to play. What's its name?"
"Huh? Oh. You mean my cat. His name is Seamus."
Greg and I smiled at each other. It was plain to see he was trying to put me at ease.
After I had called him, I invested some time doing research on Greg Stevens. Being a paralegal has its rewards, not to mention access to and knowledge of public records. What I needed to know, I found right online. You just have to know where to look.
I verified that Gregory William Stevens was the owner and operator of Ocean Breeze Graphics, a printing and design shop located in Huntington Beach. It was a sole proprietorship with a fictitious name certificate properly filed with the Orange County Clerk. I also discovered he'd graduated in 1985 from Palisades High School, and from Cal State Long Beach in 1990 with a degree in business. Five years ago he purchased a home in Seal Beach. I even drove by the house early this morning to determine the type of neighborhood he lived in. All seemed on the up and up.
"I hope you don't mind eating here," he said. "The food is very good and it's one of the few places that allows me to have Wainwright with me."
"No, not at all. And it's nice being so close to the beach."
We were making small talk, avoiding the real reason for the meeting. We were here to talk about Sophie; to discuss the possibility of a murder.
As soon as the waitress brought coffee and took our orders, I opened the discussion.
"Did you see Hollowell and that man arguing at the chapel?" I asked.
He took a sip of coffee. "You mean the little guy making accusations and Hollowell ignoring him?"
"Exactly."
"Sure I saw it. Who didn't?"
"So, who are those guys? You said you knew Hollowell."
"No, not exactly. Until that guy called him Hollowell, I didn't know that was him."
"But you said..."
"I said, I know who Hollowell is. Meaning, I know who he is, or was, to Sophie."
"And?"
"John Hollowell was Sophie's addiction. Heroin in human form. Though I have no idea who he is, the little guy was probably right. It's very likely Hollowell
did
have something to do with her death. Maybe not directly, but at least indirectly."
Our breakfasts came. Greg immediately began cutting up his eggs, then splashed some salsa over them. While I waited for more information, I watched the yellow yolks and red sauce run all over the plate, mixing with the whites and hash browns. My own avocado and jack cheese omelet went ignored.
He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed before going on. "Sophie was in love with the bastard. Had been for years, even though she knew he was just using her. She was trying to break it off. I think there was a lot of co-dependency in that relationship."
"You knew about her son?" I cut a small piece of omelet with the side of my fork and ate it without tasting, waiting for his answer.
"I knew she had one. That she hadn't seen him in years, not since he was a small boy. That, too, somehow, was because of Hollowell. Though she never went into details."
I continued with my twenty questions. "Did you know that her son thinks she's been dead all these years? And that he lives just about an hour from here?"
Now it was his turn to be surprised. We both drank some coffee. He flagged the waitress over for a refill.
"Sherrie, while you're at it, could you get Wainwright a bit of water?"
"Sure, Greg," the waitress answered. She flashed a megawatt smile at him that was more than just good service.
Shortly, she returned with a plastic bowl and placed it on the ground by the patient dog, patting him on the head before leaving. I could hear the animal lapping at the water with great gusto. It made me smile. In the middle of all this crazy intrigue, his eager drinking made sense. It was normal and natural.
"I knew about the son's existence," Greg said. "Nothing more. Because she told me she hadn't seen him in years, I assumed he lived out-of-state, or at least far away."
"The boy and his father live in Santa Paula."
Greg was surprised again. "Santa Paula isn't that far away. Do you think maybe the little guy at the service was her husband?"
I thought about it before answering. "Could be. But the attorney said he spoke to Sophie's ex. He claimed he didn't want anything to do with her or her estate. In fact, he said to just mail him a check for their son if anything was left."
"So everything goes to the boy?"
"Yes. Except for a few personal bequests. Including something to you, I might add." He brightened a bit at my words, but his smile was tainted with sadness. "Everything else is to be liquidated and given to the father as trustee for the son. I'm told the son is about twenty now."
"Is there much of an estate? I never got the feeling Sophie was rolling in dough, just comfortable."
We had finished breakfast and were sipping coffee. I looked at my watch. I still had another hour before meeting Zee and Cruz.
"More than I expected," I explained. "Stocks, savings, jewelry. The house, of course, which is mortgage-free. A rough initial estimate came in just over a million."
"Nice," Greg said, sounding impressed. "Sounds like she was a good saver. You think maybe she was killed for the estate? If so, that would point to the ex or the son."
"Yes, but I don't think so. Supposedly, the boy didn't even know she existed and her ex wants to keep it that way. Since the boy is the only heir, no one else would have benefited financially from her death."
"So money wouldn't be the motive for murder."
Although it was on both of our minds, this was the first time either of us had used the M word.
I threw out another idea. One I had been chewing on like a piece of Juicy Fruit. "Maybe the ex-husband wanted to make sure Sophie remained dead to their son."
Greg mulled it over a bit. "It's a possibility. Maybe she was trying to contact the boy and his father didn't like it. That could certainly be a motive. Get her out of the way permanently."
There was something else I had been dying to bring up, but didn't know how without seeming ghoulish. Greg hadn't mentioned again that he'd seen Sophie die. Many others couldn't shut up about it. Leaning forward, I posed it to him in a quiet, almost non-existent whisper.
"Greg, you said you saw Sophie kill herself."
He nervously ran his fingers through his longish hair, and his handsome face quickly turned from thoughtful to distraught. He looked away, toward the beach across the street.
"Yes," he said quietly. "First she held the gun in her mouth. Then I saw the aftermath."
I had only seen the dried blood, and that had been enough.
"The detective said the gun was registered in Sophie's name, and that there was gunpowder residue on both of her hands."
Greg nodded. "The residue would make sense if she shot herself. She held the gun with both hands. Like this."
He demonstrated, holding a spoon in both hands and sticking the bowl just inside his lips. The sight of it made me want to vomit. I quickly went back to our conversation about money.
"The only beneficiary is the son, and supposedly he didn't even know she existed."
"Sex and money." Greg was looking out at the beach again. I could tell he was thinking out loud, rather than speaking to me. "Sex and money," he repeated. "The two most popular reasons for murder."
There is was again, the M word.
"What about the web site?" I asked. "Perhaps one of the viewers got too close."
More than once it had crossed my mind that maybe Greg Stevens had gotten too close. He said he'd never met Sophie, but that didn't mean he was telling the truth. For someone he'd never met, he sure knew a lot about her. He turned his gaze away from the beach and in my direction, catching me red-handed in the act of scrutinizing him. I felt myself blush and quickly brought my coffee mug up to my mouth, hoping to cover part of it.
"Greg," I said, after taking a couple swallows of coffee, "since we are on such friendly and candid terms now, tell me something. Something that Sophie might have confided in you."
"Sure, doesn't matter now, does it?"
I felt my mouth turn downward.
"Tell me, why did Sophie perform on that site?"
Greg reached down and patted his dog. I could tell he was giving it a great deal of thought. Picking up a scrap of bacon from his plate, he fed it to the well-behaved animal.
"Sophie had a lot of reasons for operating that site. Some I know, most I can guess at. Money for one reason. She was very popular and had a lot of subscribers. Also, I think it gave her a boost emotionally."
"You mean performing like that gave her a rush?"
"Probably. You'd be surprised how many people get their kicks that way on the Internet. But for Sophie it was more than that." He paused, weighing his words carefully.
"Both you and Sophie did a lot of work promoting equality for overweight women. If you haven't looked at the site yet, you should. Her message is loud and clear, even there. All women are beautiful, no matter their size or shape. Also..." He drifted off.
"Also, what?" I asked, urging him on. He was talking about a friend I knew, yet didn't know. "Did she ever say anything specifically about the site?"
"Yes, one night she and I talked until dawn about a lot of things." He rolled his wheelchair closer to me, and I found myself leaning in closer to him.
"The same bigotry that faces you as an overweight woman, often faces the disabled. We are viewed differently, as something apart. People are nervous around others who are not quite the same as they are."
He paused briefly, took a deep breath and continued. "Just as many people don't view me as a whole man, they don't see you as a whole woman. And you know that's true, Odelia. I'm not telling you something you haven't already experienced."
I nodded. Size does matter. In getting jobs, mates, even seats on buses, it's always a factor. Even shopping.
"It doesn't matter if it's weight, a disability, religion, or the color of someone's skin," Greg said. "It's all based on ignorance. Most of the men who frequented Sophie's web site adore larger women, including me. That night she told me that chatting with them, getting e-mails and fan mail, made her feel truly special. After giving so much to everyone else, this was where she received her support. Her refueling, so to speak."
It was my turn to gaze out at the ocean. I stared at the sand and surf across the street and took several deep breaths. Each time filling my lungs with the salty fresh air until they could hold no more.
"It bothers you that she confided in me and not you, doesn't it?" Greg asked.
I nodded without looking at him.
"Maybe I can explain it better. You ever go online, like in chat rooms?"
Again, I nodded my confession. "Yes, a few times. But I usually find them pretty stupid."
"Ever meet someone, man or woman, and find yourself talking to them about everything?"
I didn't have to think long before remembering JersyLil. Her real name was Lillian Ramsey. We'd met playing backgammon online and spent hours one evening just playing one game after another and talking. We still meet about an hour a week to play and chat. Though she doesn't live that far away, in all this time we've never met. I had confided things to her even Zee didn't know. It was dawning on me where Greg was going with this.
"Yes. I have an online friend like that."
"That's how Sophie and I were. We were faceless confidants, although I knew what she looked like. I came across her web cam site one night, then started corresponding and chatting with her regularly. Since I have design and computer knowledge, I helped her with the site on occasion. Later, it became regular phone calls." He sighed deeply. "I begged her to meet me, but she wouldn't allow it."
"Maybe you were angry about that, found her, and killed her," I said, my head down, eyes focused on the murky coffee in the mug I still held like a security blanket. Here I sat, suggesting he was a murderer, and I didn't even have the guts to look him in the eye.
"I could've been, but I wasn't. I understood why she didn't want to meet me. Once the anonymity is removed, the appeal to confess disappears. You become more self-conscious about what people know about you when you have to look them in the eye."
I knew he was right. Inside, I didn't believe he'd killed Sophie. I wanted to trust Greg Stevens. He was a link to Sophie's secret life and I wanted to make sure I didn't lose that link.
"We're also forgetting something else," he started to say just as Sherrie came by with our bill. Greg gave her his credit card over my protests. "No, this one's on me. Next time, you can treat me by cooking."
Next time? Cooking? This guy was about a decade younger than me and we were knee deep into a discussion on murder. Was that an attempt to flirt or just a courtesy remark? I was so out of practice, I wouldn't have been able to tell unless the comment had come wrapped around a dozen roses. I dismissed it as a simple nicety.
"What are we forgetting?" I asked him, getting the conversation back on track.
"We're forgetting another very important reason for not telling your friends something."
"And that would be?"
"For their own good. To protect them."