What Never Happened, page 20
“But this is no joke to me,” I say. “And I doubt the person harassing us is a kid.”
He studies the newest report and signs it. “I understand—I mean . . . with what happened to your family and everything.”
I nod. “As you know, it didn’t turn out so good for us the last time a ne’er-do-well visited my home.”
“Ms. Weber—”
“Call me Coco.” I lean forward. “Back to my original request. All I’m asking for are public documents. The old detective, Delveccio, said that all of his old files are here. And now, you’re telling me that no one’s been reassigned to the case, which means no one’s being brought to justice. Is that okay with you? It’s not okay with me. I promise: anything I discover, you’ll be the first person I call.”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “I . . . umm . . .” His eyebrows crumple. “I was a freshman in high school back then, and Mr. Weber, your dad, he helped me leave this island. Sent me to a few science camps. Told me to get my college degree before joining the police academy so that I could earn more.”
He shakes his head as he remembers. “My mom—she wept for weeks, and she kept crying that this wasn’t what Avalon was about, that we loved each other here, that one bad seed can destroy everything . . . she never forgave this place for taking your family. She never believed Hemphill did it.” His chin quivers, and the pulse points in his temples pop. “I’ll find what I can. It may take a moment, but I’ll . . .”
A man wearing a plaster arm cast booms into the station. “Santos!”
Santos fixes a smile on his face and shouts, “Be right there, Jack!” To me, he says, “Gwen staying out of trouble?”
I snort. “What madness could she get into at seventy-eight years old?”
“That lady’s still got quick hands,” he says, eyebrow high. “You know, right before you arrived, she asked me about eviction laws in Los Angeles County. If she could have an unwanted tenant arrested for trespassing.”
Tears burn in my throat. “Really?”
He offers a single nod, then bites his lower lip.
I clear my throat, then waggle my head. “Thanks for sharing that. I’m sure she . . . didn’t mean it the way it . . . sounds.” I clear my throat again—it remains thick and salty with tears because I don’t believe what I just said, not really.
“One last thing.” I tell Deputy Santos there’s a small chance that Mateo Amador may be unhappy that I’ve asked him hard questions about Felicity’s passing. “I think he may have been hanging around the house late last night, riding his skateboard up and down the sidewalk.”
“You think Mateo threw the bottle?”
“No idea,” I say, shrugging, “but I did see him boxing up some of Felicity’s things and hiding them in a day locker at the pier. He was also hanging out by Paula Paulsen’s house.”
“Oh, really? Did he catch you looking?”
I nod. “I think so. I mean . . . it could be nothing, but then again . . . I’ve learned a lot about Felicity’s family. Sketchy as hell.”
Santos sits back in his chair. “They were an embarrassment to that poor lady. If it is Mateo, then watch your back and your purse. He’s a problem, and I’m hoping that he leaves this island now that Felicity is gone.”
Sure: Mateo could’ve thrown the bottle, but that message—THIS HOUSE IS OURS!!!—wouldn’t make sense coming from him.
And then, there’s Micah—he thought everything I had was his, too. Did he really think my house was up for grabs?
“My ex-husband,” I say now to Deputy Santos. “He’s angry, very angry with me right now. He may have thrown the bottle.”
Santos grabs his pen and pad. “Okay. Describe him.”
“Santos,” the broken-armed man shouts. “Those kids broke into my vending machines again. This time, I want their heads! No one steals my Cheetos without payin’.”
The Avalon Mortuary and Cemetery is located on the same road that I drove trying to access Haypress Pond. The cemetery doesn’t ramble on like the memorial parks over on the mainland. On an island, there’s only so much space that can be dedicated to burying the dead.
The mortician, Gary Thresher, is a simple man wearing simple chinos and a wheat-knit sweater. His hair matches the color of the land outside, and he keeps the side part as neat and delineated as the DMZ between North and South Korea.
I share that I look forward to working with him. “Since, you know, I’ll be writing about the people you’re preparing for burial.”
We settle at his desk, and he shares the history of burials here on Catalina Island. “There’s no more space out back,” Gary says. “People are either buried at sea, or their ashes scattered at sea.” He squints at me. “Do we know each other?”
I force a smile. “We do now.”
“You seem . . . so familiar to me.”
I pretend that he probably wasn’t on staff the night my loved ones’ bodies were retrieved from the house on Middle Terrace. “I’ve been talking to a few family members while writing their loved ones’ obits. I’m learning that a few of the deceased had unexpected deaths.”
Gary crosses his legs, takes a sip of coffee. “A lot of deaths across the state, even here. Hopefully this virus won’t take more.”
I press my hands together. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Explain?”
“Felicity Amador, for example. She was found not too far from here.”
“Haypress Pond,” he says. “Have you been there? It’s a beautiful place.”
I make a sad face. “I couldn’t get past those gates.”
“You have to be on a tour or . . .” He glances at his watch.
I remember Noah’s advice, then lean forward. “Her friends don’t understand how she got to the pond,” I say. “And then to die of a heart attack? She had—”
“Lung cancer.”
“Strange, right? Her great-nephew, Mateo, is heartbroken—he doted on her.”
Gary thinks about that and says, “Hmm . . .”
I hold my breath. Spill it, Gary. Spill all that tea, bro.
But he shakes his head. “I’m sure Felicity being exposed to the cold and rain didn’t help.”
“Is it pretty isolated out there?”
“Oh, definitely. I would show you around, but I have a family visit.”
The doors clank open, and voices fill the lobby.
He smiles. “May I direct them to you if they’d like something written?”
“Certainly!”
After we exchange information, I hurry past the grieving family and out into the light.
Dr. Burke’s eyes are redder than the EMERGENCY sign we stand beside.
“Since I’m writing both the obits and community pages in the Breeze, I thought I’d introduce myself and—”
She holds up her red, chapped hand. “I truly appreciate it, but like I said, I don’t have a lot of time to chat. This . . . virus . . . whatever it is . . . it’s taking every bit of focus and energy to make sure we’re prepared over here. Because it is coming, that is, if it’s not here yet.”
“Old women are dying,” I say, “and as I’m talking with their families, I’m finding—”
She holds up another raw hand. “I’m sorry? What was your name again?”
“Colette Weber.” I pause, then say, “Felicity Amador’s family, they’re understandably upset. Her great-nephew, Mateo, especially—”
“Colette,” Dr. Burke interrupts, “I wish I could talk longer, but I really need to get back to caring for the living. After this virus becomes a memory, we’ll have drinks and queso, but right now . . .” She thumbs back to the hospital.
I nod. “Understood. No worries. Thank you. Be safe.”
She walks backward, saying, “If I were you? I’d stock up on food and supplies right now. They’re already laying off people at the restaurants and motels. Trust me when I say that this won’t be easy.”
The newsroom smells of scorched coffee and burned popcorn, and the carpet feels spongy beneath my shoes. The chatter between Harriet the receptionist and Patty the ad saleswoman is music to my ears. But my trash can hasn’t been emptied since Friday—I spot the empty bag of cashews and empty water bottle. The trash cans in the kitchen are also filled with last week’s trash. Dried coffee rings and spilled salt dirty the countertop.
Where is Yesenia?
“That always happens, right, honey?” Maddy sits behind her desk as Flynn nests in the window with a sketchbook and pencil in his lap. She looks rested today with her shiny gold hair and low-cut peasant blouse.
“People just . . . disappearing?” I plop into the guest chair and pluck the Marvin the Martian figurine from his place near her desk phone.
“With everything going on,” Flynn says, “she may have risked boarding the ferry.”
“Risk?” I say. “Does the ferry sink regularly or something?”
Flynn chuckles. “Not that kind of risk. ICE rides the ferries.”
“ICE as in immigration?” I gape at him, then Maddy. “Is she undocumented?” I whisper.
Maddy nods. “I think so.”
“ICE agents arrest people on the boat?” I say.
Amused by my reaction, Flynn laughs. “Once they get to Avalon, some people never leave at all because of their status. They don’t visit loved ones overtown. They won’t seek any medical treatment beyond what our little hospital can handle. Because if they do, they risk deportation. Yeah, they’re trapped.”
Pressure builds against my eyes, and I want to explode. “Folks are okay with that?”
Maddy shrugs. “Some are. Some aren’t. I’ve tried to help Yesenia any way I can, but there’s only so much I can do. Except now, I need to hire someone else. Anyway . . .”
Flynn closes his sketchbook. “Guess that’s my cue.” He stands and stretches, then pecks Maddy on the cheek. “Heading back to the house. See ya, Coco.”
We watch him amble out of the office and down the hallway.
Maddy then smiles and winks at me. “So . . . you and Noah went out Friday night?”
I blush. “We did—but it wasn’t planned. He tell you?”
She shakes her head. “A waitress over at the Buffalo Nickel did. How did it go? Not that I’m encouraging my employees to hook up, but then you’re not just my employee.”
My blush spreads to my neck. “We had fun. Danced. Drank.” I pause, then add, “Made out a little.”
“Yes!” Maddy high-fives me. “And then?”
“And then . . . nothing happened. His mom is sick—she was admitted to the hospital.”
Glee drains from her face. “She’s okay, right?”
I shrug. “We haven’t talked again because . . .”
I tell her about the Mickey’s bottle and its threatening note shattering our door window.
She blinks at me. “No way.”
I show her pictures that I took.
“Who is ‘ours’?” she asks.
“Don’t know. Whoever it is also called Gwen and me back on Wednesday. Threatened us after I turned down his offer to sell the house. Said he’d burn it down with Gwen and me inside. That wasn’t Micah—I know his voice.”
“And the sheriff’s department—”
“Deputy Santos came over, and this morning, I went to see him. He thinks it’s a kid playing a joke . . .”
Maddy grabs a legal pad and pen from her desk drawer. “May I write about this?”
“Umm . . . I really don’t wanna draw attention to us since, y’know . . . this may be the person who actually killed my family.”
Maddy scoffs. “That would be stupid.”
“Because . . . ?”
She starts writing across the pad. “It just is, Coco. You’re still looking at this with LA-UCLA communications eyes. Is Avalon crime-free? No. We had a small drug bust just yesterday. And back on Wednesday, someone hit a parked car and fled. And then, when the cruise ship passengers come . . .”
I say nothing and stare at my knees.
“What’s wrong?”
“Those dead old women—”
“C’mon, Coco. The two-legged chupacabra serial killer?”
“You told me to gather evidence, and that’s what I’m doing.”
Maddy sinks in her chair.
“Hear me out. Please.”
She looks at her phone’s clock. “Three minutes. The mayor’s gonna be here in ten.”
I pull the area map from my binder and point to each circled site. “Isn’t it strange that old women—widows—are straight . . . dropping at landmarks? And then, there’s the houses. Every house—Felicity’s, Paula’s, Consuela Barraza’s, and Vera Johansen’s—is being listed by Alessandra Verascio. And after just a few basic searches, I discovered that Alessandra Verascio isn’t the woman on the business card.” I show her the stock photograph on my phone. “And Helen—”
Maddy bristles. “What about Helen? What does Helen have to do with this? You’re not pulling her into your little crime-conspiracy-dead-old-ladies-chupacabra-satanist thing, are you?”
I hold out my hands. “No. Of course not. I’m just saying the photographs—”
“So now it’s weird to use stock photographs?” Maddy asks, smirking.
“Have you ever met Alessandra in person?”
Maddy rolls her eyes. “Of course I have. Colette, this is crazy—”
“Right. Hard crime supposedly doesn’t happen on this island utopia. Of course, I know firsthand that’s bull. There is a story here, Maddy. There is danger here—for Gwen and me, and for any sick old lady with a dead husband and property.”
Maddy pulls at her lip and studies me. “I understand where you’re coming from, but . . .” She stands from the desk. “And I want good stories. I need good stories. But this . . .” She waves at the map. “I can’t risk publishing something that can’t be validated. I have no money for lawsuits, and I’m trying to keep the paper afloat as is. While I’m hella intrigued”—her phone vibrates and she peeks at the screen—“it’s not your job to do investigative reporting. You missed a whole weekend of community shit, but now, I’m supposed to be okay with you—”
“Maddy!” A woman with a silver-blonde bob and an easy smile fills the office with her girls’ school headmistress vibe and Free People style.
Maddy smiles and says, “Your Honor.”
She doesn’t introduce me to the mayor.
Guess that’s my cue.
Back at my desk, I check email.
Obituary request for Saul Arkanos.
Stay at Home order issued in Los Angeles.
“Hey, Coco.” Maddy walks over to me as the mayor talks with the receptionist. “I’m about to be inaccessible for a few hours—the island’s shutting down.”
My pulse jumps. “What?”
“You look terrified. It’s gonna be fine.”
“This isn’t good, Maddy,” I say. “Any woman Gwen’s age is already in danger—”
“Sweetie.” Maddy crouches beside me. “I’m not shocked that you’re personalizing this. You do that, which makes you an astounding writer. Centering yourself, getting the reader to see life through your eyes, but you need proof that something is happening. Boss hat on now . . .” She takes a deep breath, holds it, then slowly exhales. “Please settle down, okay? So much is happening, and we all have our beats, right? Folks are looking to your beat to feel . . . safe. To have some type of normalcy. I need you to focus, okay?” She squeezes my arm. “Boss hat off. I love you—you’re like my sister, you know that. Don’t be mad. Wish me luck with this press conference. We’re about to piss off a lot of people.” She kisses my cheek.
I watch my friend and the mayor hustle out the doorway.
Maddy’s telling me to drop it.
She did that back when we wrote for the Times—I wanted to investigate the monster killing homeless people, but she thought there was no story there. And then she scooped me.
This time, Maddy admitted that there may be something there, but she wants proof first. A lot of proof. And for me to do my job or go.
Fine.
I’ll do it all.
23.
Sunday, March 15, 2020
During that last summer trip here with my family, we took a guided tour around the island. Our tour guide, Fran, noticed that Langston ate tangerines throughout the trip, and she found a bag to carry his peels. At one point, she told us about the goats of Catalina—how the missionaries had brought them over from the mainland to the native Gabrielino Indians in 1827, how the goat population thrived and ate everything it could, and how the goats practically obliterated all ground cover that kept the plants and trees viable, destroying the land so much that in 1990, there’d been a great goat hunt that aimed to kill three thousand goats. “Those goats stripped the land,” she said, “and threatened native species, like the now-endangered Catalina fox.”
As we stood near the botanical gardens, Langston spit a tangerine seed into the dirt. Fran lunged for that seed and slipped it into the bag. “We can’t have outsiders propagating,” she explained. “See: there are no citrus trees on Santa Catalina. If one were to grow, what would happen? It would wreck the ecosystem of the entire island. Just like the other outsider trees—eucalyptus and palm trees. We’d have to kill that tree, no matter how much we all love fresh orange juice. It would be for the best. We must do everything we can to protect this very fragile, very special place.”
That’s why the deaths of these women bother me.
People who go crazy about an orange seed falling into the earth are totally ignoring the possibility that there’s a “bad seed” killing the island’s senior citizens. Or the possibility that a “concerned” citizen may be killing people that they believe are “bad seeds.”
Right now, Yesenia, Paula’s friend Loretta, and I are the only ones concerned about these deaths. Unless this is how they roll on Santa Catalina. I am an outsider, after all.
The rain has stopped, and the thick, still air is so gray that the sea cannot be separated from the sky. The mayor announced during the press conference that ferry service will be limited to twice a day—and only for essential trips like doctor’s appointments.
