Contact (15 page)

“I’m going to put this picture back where I found it and forget I ever saw it.”

“If that’s what you want, Mira, then do it. But maybe you should reconsider.”

“Why?”

“Because of
that
.”

David stands and walks up beside me. Reaching around me, he clicks my mouse, minimizing the Facebook page. In its place is a listing of current news stories. David drags the cursor toward the bottom left hand corner and points to a headline in bold letters:
Evidence Links
Rawley Scandal To Political Candidate
.

“Think about it, Mira. What if he’s not the man you always thought he was? The picture proves he lied about Jackie Beitner. What if he lied about this, too?”

“You mean what if he sanctioned those Gaudium trials after all?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. People died, Mira.” David’s voice is full of concern.

“Papa had nothing to do with that. He couldn’t have.”

David walks back across my room to the window. Outside, the promised storm is finally making its appearance.

“Maybe that’s true,” he says. “But what if he is guilty? What if he did what they claim he did? Either way, maybe this Jackie Beitner knows something.”

I look at the photo again and consider what he’s saying. What if Papa is found guilty? Would he go to prison? What would happen to me? To Mama? If this woman had a relationship with my father, she might have information that could hurt him, but it’s just as possible she could help clear his name.

“So where do we go from here?” I ask out loud, not really expecting an answer.

David turns from the window, his hands in his jeans pockets. Shrugging his shoulders, he says matter-of-factly, “We go to Bakersfield.”

D
avid needs to run his
uncle to a dentist appointment, but he promises to come back later once he’s finished. We’re going to drive the two hours to Bakersfield and see if we can track down Jackie Beitner. I search for addresses in Bakersfield and find one for a Robert and Marie Beitner—the only Beitners listed in that town, so they might very well be related. The phone number is unlisted, so we’ll just drop by and take our chances.

After printing out the address and directions from Google Maps, I power down my computer. I still have a little time to spare, so I take a shower and put on a clean tank and jeans. I reach for my hoodie and my backpack, then head downstairs.

On reaching the entryway, I notice movement in the dining room. I swing in to tell Helen goodbye but find the room empty. Except for the lingering aroma of maple syrup, all traces of breakfast have been cleared from the table. A gray suit coat is draped over the back of a chair, a pair of black leather driving gloves peeking out from a pocket. Have Papa’s plans changed? If he’s home early, how will I leave with David without him knowing?

I pick up the jacket and walk through the kitchen toward Papa’s office, but instead of Papa I find Jordan standing at the desk, rifling through an open manila file full of papers. He jumps when he sees me, startled.

“Mira,” he says, laughing uneasily, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I’ve been here all morning,” I tell him, “but I am going out later.”

“Oh,” he says with a hint of disappointment. “Helen saw your friend’s car drive away. I just assumed you’d gone with him.”

He knows David’s been here? If he knows, then it’s a good bet Papa knows, too.

“I thought you both went to Sacramento. Did the flight get cancelled? Is Papa here?” I ask, peering back down the hall.

“No,” Jordan replies. “I had some business at the lab to take care of so I stayed behind.”

He spots his jacket in my hand and reaches for it. I give it to him, and he thanks me as he slips it on before turning his attention back to the papers. “Listen, Mira, would you mind getting me a glass of water from the kitchen?” he asks. “I’m parched, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

I’m relieved to know Papa isn’t here, and that he doesn’t know about David after all. At least not yet.

I set my backpack down on the desk. “What are you looking for? Anything important?”

“I’m afraid not.” Jordan smirks and rolls his eyes, his usual expression when Papa asks him to do something trivial. But Jordan never says ‘no’ to Papa. No matter what.

I enter the kitchen and find a six pack of cold water bottles in the fridge. I take one out for Jordan and a couple more for the trip to Bakersfield. When I get back to Papa’s office Jordan slips a folded piece of paper into his jacket breast pocket and takes a bottle.

“Thanks,” he says. “Well, I’m off then.” He starts for the door, but something inside me doesn’t want him to go. Not yet. There’s something I need to know first.

“Did Papa cheat on my mother?” I blurt out the words before I can change my mind.

Jordan freezes, a look of amused shock on his face. “What—?”

“I need to know,” I continue. “You and Papa have been friends forever. If he ever did anything like that he would have told you—wouldn’t he?”

Jordan stares at me for a few moments, as if debating with himself whether or not to answer me.

“Did your mom tell you that?” he asks, finally. I don’t answer. I simply wait. “He never meant for her to find out,” Jordan says after a while. “He thought he was being discreet.”

“So you knew all along?”

“I’ve known your dad a long time, Mira. We were in the 2
nd
Battalion together.”

“I know,” I reply. He and Papa have told me dozens of stories about their experiences over the years.

“After the war I wasn’t doing so well,” Jordan continues. “Your dad got me a job at Rawley Pharmaceutical as a lab tech. Obviously, I’ve done pretty well there, thanks to him. What I’m trying to say is he’s a decent guy, Mira.”

“Then why did he have an affair?”

Jordan sighs and pinches his lips together. He doesn’t want to go into this, I can tell, but he will.

“Early on,” he begins, “your parents were mad about each other. But they had problems. They couldn’t get pregnant. It caused a real strain in their marriage. Your
dad…well, let’s just say he made some mistakes. But then things turned around. You came along. He’s been devoted to you and your mom ever since.”

Hearing Jordan confirm what I’d already guessed only hurts more. Between the endless hours away from home as Rawley’s CEO, his campaign, and now the inquiry, the one thing Papa hasn’t been is a devoted husband and father.

“Give your dad a little credit,” Jordan adds. “He’s a good man at heart. Your mom knew—knows that.”

There is a long stretch of silence between us. Behind him, the metal filing cabinet where I found that photo stands as the only witness to Jordan’s revelation. I wonder what other secrets it might still hold. I notice that Jordan’s eyes are on me, narrowed and probing.

“Mira, there’s something else, isn’t there?” he asks. “What else did she tell you? Did she know who?”

The question is vague, but I understand what he wants to know. The photo of Jack
ie Beitner and my father is still in my back pocket. I could pull it out right now and show him. Jordan steps closer and peers down at me, his expression suddenly hard and menacing, as if a demon was waiting just under the surface. I leave the photo where it is.

“Mama only suspected he’d been unfaithful,” I lie. “She doesn’t know the woman’s name.”

Jordan relaxes a bit, and his lips pull up at the corners, relieved. Turning to the desk, he straightens the file he’d been searching, and then slides it into a desk drawer.

“So, you’ve got plans this afternoon?” he asks, abruptly changing the topic.

“Yeah, sort of.”

“With that boy?”

“His name’s David. And I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention him to my father?” I frame the request like an appeal. “He thinks I’m better off quarantined than spending time with people my age.”

Jordan tugs on his driving gloves while giving me the reproachful look I know all too well. So I amend my comment, “All right—
boys
my age. But David’s really nice. Papa would like him if he’d give him a chance, but all he cares about is his campaign.”

“The campaign isn’t all he cares about, Mira,” says Jordan. “But it is very important right now. The future of Rawley Pharmaceutical—of Gaudium—hinges on his success. With your father as the governor, he will have a great deal of influence in getting state and possibly federal funding for Rawley’s research.”

Hearing Jordan explain it, I almost feel guilty for doubting Papa at all. “But the investigations, those deaths,” I say. “What if they hold Papa liable? What if he’s arrested?”

“Your father won’t be arrested,” answers Jordan, his voice firm.

“But even so, he could still lose the election after all this.”

Jordan steps up to me and places a gloved hand against my cheek. I smell the leather and something else I can’t quite place as he traces the side of my face with his thumb. The gesture takes me by surprise and sets me on edge.

“He won’t lose,” he says, his pupils contracting to small black points which seem to pierce right through me. “I’ll make sure of it.”

After Jordan leaves, I wait
impatiently for David. My conversation with Jordan left me feeling unsettled.

I’m relieved when I climb into the car beside David. I consider telling him about my conversation with Jordan, but I just don’t feel much like talking. It was one thing just suspecting Papa of being unfaithful to Mama, but hearing Jordan confirm it has left a solid void in the pit of my stomach.

The drive up to Bakersfield is a quiet one. We don’t say much, but the radio’s volume is turned up high, filling the space between us. Halfway to our destination, a light sprinkle of rain begins to fall. David turns the wipers on, but the weather doesn’t dampen our spirits.

When we get closer to Bakersfield, I reach into my backpack for the map I printed. “Crud,” I say with a frustrated huff. “I must have left it at home.”

“Do you have your phone?”

I dig in my purse some more. “Of course I don’t have it. I never have it.”

“No problem. We’ll use mine.”

After looking up the Beitners’ address again, the GPS on David’s phone leads us to a quiet middle class suburban neighborhood with nicely kept lawns and homes painted all the same drab shades of beige and brown.

“That’s it,” I tell David, pointing at a house with a bay window and an apple tree in the yard.

Pulling a u-turn, David parks in front. “So what’s the plan?”

“I don’t have a plan,” I tell him. “I thought you’d have a plan.”

“Me? Why would I have a plan?”

This is going nowhere. Stepping out of the car into the drizzling rain, I jog up to the front door. David’s beside me a few seconds later, shaking the water from his hair. I ring the doorbell. From behind the door there’s a light scuffling sound, then the click of the lock being unlatched. Finally, the door opens a few inches, and the face of an elderly man peers at us through a pair of thick, rectangular shaped lenses.

“Yeah?” asks the man in a scruffy voice. “If you’re trying to sell me another vacuum cleaner, I don’t want it. The last one ate up my carpet and scared my cat away.”

“We’re not here about vacuums,” says David. I can tell he’s trying to stifle a chuckle. He clears his throat and quickly regains his composure.

“We’re looking for Robert Beitner,” I cut in.

The old man squints at us both. “I’m Robert Beitner.”

“And Marie Beitner?” adds David.

“That’s my wife. You want my wife? Mar!” The man turns and shouts into the house. “Mar, there’s a couple a kids here to see you!”

“Actually, we just had a question—” but the man’s moved aside and his wife, a frail looking woman wearing a yellow apron and fuzzy pink slippers, appears at the door.

“Yes?” she says cheerfully.

I look at David. He shrugs. So I guess I’m in the spotlight.

“Mrs. Beitner, my name is Miranda—” I’m about to tell her my last name, but then decide against it. “Miranda Johnson. And this is my friend, David.”

Marie Beitner looks at me a little funny, but waits patiently for me to continue.

“We’re looking for someone who may have lived in this neighborhood a long time ago. Did you know a Jackie Beitner by any chance?”

At the sound of Jackie’s name, Marie’s face goes white. She raises a trembling hand to her lips and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, a tear escapes and gets lost in her wrinkled cheek.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s been so long, but I still miss my Jackie as much as ever. Why don’t the two of you come in and set a while. I just baked a loaf of lemon berry bread. I’ll slice you up some, hmm?”

How can we turn down such a kind invitation?

The Beitner home smells of spiced apple and old newsprint. I spot some potpourri in an electric warmer near the front door, not far from several waist-high stacks of newspaper. Mrs. Beitner leads us along the pathway between the stacks into a small yet comfortable living room dominated by a baby grand piano at the window. The piano and fireplace mantle are draped with white crocheted coverlets, the perfect backdrop for the dozens of framed photos arranged on them both.

“You can imagine how hard it’s been for us without her,” Mrs. Beitner says, lowering herself into a wooden rocker beside the piano. David and I sit on a yellow flowered loveseat while Mr. Beitner heads toward the kitchen in the back. “Jackie was our only child.”

David and I exchange astonished glances.

“
Was
your only child?” I ask, trying to be as tactful as possible.

“Yes,” replies Mrs. Beitner. “She passed away sixteen years ago.”

My heart drops. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t know.”

I notice the display of framed photos on the mantle. They are all the same girl at different ages, most likely Jackie. There’s one when she’s a teen holding a violin under her chin; another as a girl riding a bicycle; and still another in a black graduation cap and gown.

“How did she die?” I ask cautiously.

Mrs. Beitner goes silent. She remains polite, but I can tell she’s a bit wary of us.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I guess I should explain why we’re here.” I cast a quick
help me
glance at David. “Uh, well, we’re from the local high school, you know. And we’re…”

“We’re on the committee for the school paper,” interjects David.

“Oh, reporters?” asks Mrs. Beitner.

“That’s right,” I say. “We’re doing a piece on—the upcoming election. We understand that your daughter used to work for one of the candidates.”

“Oh? Well, I don’t recall—”

Mr. Beitner comes in carrying a plastic silver-colored tray. “Just a minute, Mar,” he says with a pleasant smile, “let our guests sample some of your cooking.”

He first offers the tray to me. I help myself to a thick, golden slice of warm lemon bread dotted with large purple blueberries, and a Styrofoam cup of apple juice.

“Thank you,” I say. “This looks delicious.”

David takes his share as well. Mr. and Mrs. Beitner take the remaining slices of bread and cups of juice, before abandoning the tray on the piano. The bread is as tasty as it looks. I should ask for the recipe before I go.

“Did I hear you say you write for your school newspaper?” asks Mr. Beitner.

“That’s right,” I say.

“They want to know how Jackie passed away,” explains his wife. Then she turns to us. “She died of a brain hemorrhage—caused by a tumor.”

“Again, we’re so sorry to hear that.” I’m sure the disappointment must show on my face. Jackie Beitner is dead, and any information she might have had about my father is dead, too. I want to leave, but the Beitners seem to be enjoying our visit. I need to find some polite way of ending this.

Rising slowly from the couch, I try to think of something to say, when David speaks up. “Do you know if Jackie was seeing anyone before she died?” he asks while finishing off his lemon bread. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

Mrs. Beitner pauses, her forehead creasing in thought. “I didn’t know much about her private life,” she says. “Jackie didn’t tell us much. She lived on her own, had a job with a temp agency doing secretarial work.”

“She worked for Rawley Pharmaceutical, didn’t she? I mean the candidate, Mr. Ortiz, mentioned her in an old interview once.” This is a complete lie, but I’m hoping the Beitners won’t notice.

Mrs. Beitner looks to her husband, who nods. “Yes,” he says. “For a short time. Don’t you remember, Mar?”

“Oh, that’s right. She did mention it once or twice. Rawley… I think I remember hearing something about it on the news. Didn’t we, dear?”

Mr. Beitner nods again.

“But you asked about a boyfriend,” continues Mrs. Beitner. “She must have had, though we never met him. She did introduce us to one of her co-workers once. A nice young fellow. We met them for lunch when we were in the Valley one day. We were shopping for a new car, weren’t we, Bob?”

I look at David. He raises his eyebrows and gives a slight nod of his head, encouraging me to go on. “Could you tell us what the man looked like?” I ask.

“Young,” says Mrs. Beitner, “and very tall. He had red hair; I remember that distinctly about him, and a birthmark under one of his eyes. He was very nice.”

I look back at David, conveying my disappointment. Red hair. Tall. Definitely not Papa.

Stepping over to the mantel, I take a closer look at the photos. There’s one I hadn’t noticed before; it’s not framed, just a snapshot leaning against the wall.

“Who is this?” I ask, picking up the photo. In it, a young girl about two years old sits on Santa’s lap smiling directly into the camera. She has dark curls and wide dark eyes. I know this girl—this picture. And she is definitely not Jackie Beitner.

At first it seems as though the Beitners are going to ignore my question. But then Mr. Beitner glances at his wife with a resigned expression on his face. Marie lowers her eyes, but not before I see more tears in them.

“That’s our granddaughter,” says Mr. Beitner, “the baby Jackie gave up before she died.”