Grave Endings (22 page)

thirty-three

Tuesday, February 24. 11:54 A.M. Corner of Braddock
Drive and Harter Avenue. Officers stopped a man for
riding a bicycle on the sidewalk. The man said he
had been arrested twice for possession of cocaine and
methamphetamine. He showed signs of drug use and
failed a field sobriety test. “I haven't smoked rock
since this morning,” the man said. During a search,
one of the officers found a cocaine rock in the man's
pocket. “Damn, I forgot that was in there,” the man
said.
(Culver City)

“AS A MATTER OF FACT, I RECEIVED A LETTER THREE weeks ago,” Margaret Hobbs told me. “Randy was in my history class. A bright young man, but headed for trouble, anybody could see that. He wrote to ask forgiveness for plagiarizing two term papers. Can you imagine, after all these years?”

Margaret was in her sixties, with the beautiful silvery blue hair you see in commercials. She lived in a Venice apartment a few blocks from the boardwalk and the mystery bookstore where I had my first signing when
Out of the Ashes
was published two years ago. She was the fifth person from Randy's list that I'd visited this morning, only the second I'd talked to (two hadn't been home, one had received the letter and tossed it, unread), and she was saddened to hear of Randy's death. So was the Santa Monica mom-and-pop grocery store owner for whom Randy had worked one summer and from whom he had now admitted stealing.

“A little late, but it's something,” the man said, referring to the two hundred dollars Randy had included with his apology. “My wife suspected him all the time, but he had me fooled. What's he up to now, anyway?” he asked, and sighed when I told him. “A shame.”

I had written down the addresses Randy had checked off and grouped them by location. I'd started with Santa Monica and Venice and moved east to Culver City, where Randy had grown up. During the next three hours I talked to over a dozen people whose lives Randy had touched, as in the case of a nurse who lived a block away from the Creeleys.

“He was thirteen,” she told me. “I hired him to paint a room, and he took forty dollars from my wallet. He denied it, but I knew it was him. I could've reported him to the police. But he was such a sweet boy, and so heart-sick about his mother. I couldn't bring myself to do it. It's nice that he wrote, don't you think? And he sent forty dollars, too.”

I talked to other people who had suspected that Randy had stolen items or money but, like the nurse, were loath to report him. From one couple, Randy had asked forgiveness for introducing their son to marijuana. From another, for sideswiping their car. For some, Randy's letter had rekindled anger, but most people were sorry to hear he'd died and smiled wistfully when they talked about him. I wondered if Randy's life would have taken a different course if one or more of these kind, forgiving people had taken a tougher line with him. Maybe not. They had played their roles in the video of Randy's life, and he had played his.

Everyone I talked to told me Randy had changed almost overnight after Sue Ann left. And almost everyone hinted that Alice hadn't improved the situation.

“She's not an easy woman,” a neighbor said. “But I have to say she tried hard to make a home for Roland and those kids.”

I had a clearer picture of the sad pattern of Randy's path to prison, but nothing I'd learned implicated anyone else or provided a motive for Randy's murder. I couldn't imagine anyone seeking revenge after so many years over a minor theft or a dent in a car. The encouraging news was that Trina had told the truth about Randy's letters, which suggested that she may have been honest about other things she'd said.

Like Jim. Since last night I'd been looking over my shoulder and in the rearview mirror, not really expecting to find someone following me. Still . . .

After my last stop in Culver City I found myself on Goldwyn Terrace. I slowed when I passed the Creeley house, but neither the Mazda nor the Ford Explorer that I'd seen last time was in the driveway. I would have liked to ask Alice about her phone call to Randy the day he died, but even if she'd been home, she probably wouldn't have talked to me.

It was past two and I hadn't eaten anything since the English muffin and mozzarella cheese I'd had for breakfast. I drove to a restaurant on Pico and ordered a veggie burger. From there I drove to South Pasadena. With traffic it's over an hour's drive, but Randy had checked off several addresses in the area, and there had been two calls with a 626 area code on his phone.

Pasadena (Chippewa Indian for “Crown of the Valley ”) is about nine miles northeast of downtown Los Angeles and is nestled at the foot of the 10,000-plus-feet-high San Gabriel Mountains, which make a magnificent backdrop if you're driving along the 210 freeway. Originally settled by the Tongva Indians, Pasadena was a Spanish mission before it attracted a group of Indiana residents who wanted to create the “California Colony of Indiana” and relocate there for the warm climate. It was a peaceful city (probably even more so after it became incorporated in 1886, primarily to get rid of a saloon), and for a long time it was known for its citrus groves and vineyards and as a winter resort for the wealthy.

Pasadena still has a quaint, sleepy flavor. I've been there several times, most recently with Zack. We walked around Old Town, caught an exhibit at the Norton Simon Museum, and toured one of its many historic homes. When I was younger my family and I camped out several times at three in the morning in the biting cold on New Year's Day to get a good look at the magnificent floats in the Rose Parade. And now that I'm a published writer, I always drop in at Vroman's, a local independent, to see if my book is in stock and faced out, and say hi to the people at BOOK'em Mysteries. The city has a growing Jewish population, though only a small Orthodox one, and you can get a kosher meal at nearby Cal Tech, which has a kosher kitchen, or a snack at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Fair Oaks in South Pasadena, where I stopped now for a vanilla latte.

Fair Oaks was also one of the addresses from Randy's list. It belonged to a blond woman in her forties whose face turned a shade of eggplant when I mentioned his name.

“I don't care how many letters he sends,” she said. “He's scum.”

One night over ten years ago, she told me, Randy had hidden behind bushes in front of her house and leapt out as she walked up to her door. He'd taken her wallet and her peace of mind and she'd never been the same. The letter had revived the nightmares.

“The fact that he sent the letter to my house, that bothers me,” she told me. “What if it's some game?”

I told her he'd died, and saw her startled expression. She didn't do a pirouette, but she wasn't unhappy.

“Well, I guess I won't be getting any more letters,” she said, and shut the door.

My next stop was in San Marino, a small, wealthy enclave near South Pasadena that is home to the Hunting-ton Library, where my mother and I have spent many enjoyable hours admiring art and old folios and strolling through its botanical gardens. Driving through the well-groomed neighborhood, I admired stately homes set back from golf course–sized lawns and made two wrong turns before I found Cambridge Road.

After parking my Acura, I made my way up the long brick walk to the front door of a graceful two-story white Colonial. Before I could ring the bell, the door was yanked open by a lanky, towheaded teenager who looked startled to see me on the doorstep.

I was startled, too. He was strikingly handsome, with eyes the color of walnut.

“Hi.” He sounded uncomfortable, probably because I was staring.

“Hi.” I pulled my lips into a smile. “Is your mother home?”

“She's inside. Mom, somebody's here,” he called and dashed toward the driveway and the silver Audi parked in front of a dark green sport-utility vehicle.

It was Randy—the way he would have looked at sixteen or seventeen. I watched the boy as he pulled open the front door and got inside the Audi. I was still watching as he backed out of the driveway and drove off too quickly, the way my brother Joey does.

“Can I help you?”

Maybe I was wrong, I thought, but my heart raced as I turned toward the woman who was speaking, and when I saw her, I knew.

Sue Ann Creeley.

She must have been fifty or close to it, and there were fine lines around her brown eyes and grooves running from her delicate nose to the corners of her pink-lipsticked mouth, but she didn't look all that different from the young mother in the photo whose face I had memorized. She looked elegant, composed. That was different, and so was her chin-length hair, a rich blend of blond and brown. She was wearing cream slacks and a fawn-colored sweater with a matching cardigan whose sleeves she'd looped in front.

“My name is Molly Blume. I wonder if I could speak to you a minute, Mrs. Richardson.” The name had been next to the address on Randy's list.

“What's this about?” She had a smooth, cultured voice.

“Your son.”

She glanced toward the driveway. “You just missed him.” A frown darkened her lovely face. “Is something wrong?”

“I meant your other son. Randy.” If I hadn't been watching, I wouldn't have seen her jaw stiffen.

She moved several strands of hair behind her ear. “I don't have another son. You must have the wrong Richardson. Sorry.”

“He wrote down your name and address. That's how I found you. And your phone number is on his cell phone.” It was a reasonable guess.

She shook her head. “There's some mistake.”

Her face was a well-crafted balance between annoyance and confusion, but I could see alarm in her eyes. Eyes, I have learned, find it harder to mask the truth, although Ron's had fooled me often and for some time.

“I'd like to talk to you, Sue Ann.”

“My name isn't Sue Ann.” She took a step back.

“I'll leave my card in case you change your mind.”

She slammed the door shut, but I didn't hear footsteps. I had the feeling she was on the other side, waiting to make sure I would leave.

I dropped my card into the brass mailbox and walked to my car. I was tempted to drive home—I was too wound up to think straight—but I had three more Pasadena addresses and I wasn't keen on coming back tomorrow to check them out.

One was an old address. “He moved,” the homeowner told me about the man whose name Randy had written down. “The post office probably forwarded the letter.”

The woman at the second address wouldn't discuss the letter. “It's personal” was all that she would tell me.

My last stop, at twenty after five, was a small, tidy house near Washington Avenue, so close to the San Gabriels that they looked as if they were in the backyard of the petite young woman with short brown hair who opened the door and smiled pleasantly after I showed her my card. She was my age, I thought, give or take a few years, and she was wearing a gray skirt and royal blue sweater that overwhelmed her small frame.

I did my thing—introduced myself and gave her my credentials, told her I was writing an article about Randy Creeley, asked her if she'd received a letter from him recently and would she mind telling me about it. I was prepared for strike three, would almost have welcomed it because it was getting dark and chilly and home was beginning to sound awfully good.

“I
did
get a letter,” she said. “I met Randy at Rachel's Tent around six years ago. I remember him well.”

thirty-four

HER NAME WAS CHARLIE—SHORT FOR CHARLOTTE, SHE told me when we were sitting opposite each other on camel-colored love seats in a small living room that smelled of fresh paint. I'd conducted most of today's interviews on doorsteps, but Charlie had invited me inside and insisted on serving coffee and Pepperidge Farm cookies, which happen to be kosher, so I had a few.

“I haven't talked to Randy for almost half a year,” she said. “I meant to phone him when I got his letter. So what's the focus of your piece?”

She obviously hadn't heard about Randy's death, and I decided to postpone telling her. “The letters he sent. Apparently, he was trying to make amends to people he'd wronged. Most people don't take responsibility for their actions. That makes Randy unique and interesting. I'm hoping my readers will think so, too.” If she'd heard about his death, I would have thrown in “poignant.”

“I would read it.” Charlie took a sip of coffee.

“You mentioned that you met Randy at Rachel's Tent,” I said. “I'd be interested to hear about your experiences there, if you feel comfortable talking about them.”

She hesitated. “I wouldn't want my name in your article.”

“Then I won't put it in.”

That and my smile must have reassured her. She set her cup on the coffee table and settled against the sofa cushion. “My story's not all that unusual. I ran away from home because my step-dad was molesting me and my mom wouldn't do anything about it. I tried getting a job, but didn't have any skills or a high school diploma. So I hooked up with some guy I met. He was an alcoholic, and I became one, too. It doesn't take much. Then he started beating me.”

She said this without drama, as though she were telling me the plot of a movie she'd just seen. She'd probably told her story numerous times, and maybe this was the best way she could get through it without reliving painful memories.

“I wanted to leave,” Charlie continued, “but I was afraid. Of what he'd do, of how I'd survive. I'd probably still be with him if not for Rachel's Tent. Or dead. Have you been there?” When I nodded, she said, “That was the best day of my life, the day I walked in those doors.” There was a catch in her voice.

She had found her way to the agency six years ago. A year and a half later she had moved to Pasadena to work as a secretary for a real estate company, a job she'd found through Rachel's Tent's placement service. The agency had given her the vocational training that had prepared her for the job. The staff had coached her for the interview and the agency had provided the suit she'd worn, along with a modest starter wardrobe. Most important, Rachel's Tent had given her the tools and courage to escape an abusive relationship and enter a recovery program for her alcohol addiction.

“Five years ago I figured I'd be living on the streets,” she said. “Now I'm leasing this house with an option to buy it. I'm studying for my Realtor's license, and I'm dating a wonderful man.” She said this with pride and some wonder, as though she couldn't believe it herself. “And if things don't work out between us, that's okay, too. I know I can handle things on my own.”

I asked her if she had known Randy well.

“Everybody knew him well.” Charlie's smile lit up her face and crinkled the corners of her green eyes. “He was easy to talk to, and he made you believe he really cared about you. Like when he talked about his own battle with addiction.”

I nodded. “One on one, you mean?”

“That, and in group. They always had different people come to talk to us, people who went through what we did and could understand what it's like. You don't get that from a textbook.”

Randy lecturing about drug addiction was high irony—like Yasir Arafat getting the Nobel Peace Prize, which still amazes me—and an embarrassment to everyone at Rachel's Tent who knew the truth about his drug dealing. No wonder Bramer and Horton hadn't mentioned it.

“Was he a good lecturer?” I asked.

“One of the best. Well, he was an actor, so he had that extra edge, you know? He certainly fooled me.” Now her smile was wry and not amused.

I wondered if Charlie was referring to his drug use. “In what way?”

“High school stuff, really. I thought he had a thing for me.” She blushed. “He used to drive us in the agency van to special activities, and he spent a lot of time with me. The recreational therapist didn't like it. Anyway, Randy told me he thought I was special, that he wanted to get to know me. Can you believe I fell for that?” Charlie laughed, but I could hear the hurt in her voice.

I had fallen for similar lines, so I knew how she felt. “How do you know it wasn't true?”

“Because the next day he was cozying up to someone else. And a couple of days later, he dropped this other woman and went on to the next.”

“Playing the field, huh?” Barbara Anik had said Randy was too friendly with the clients.

“I guess. Except he never tried anything, you know? It was more like, ‘Tell me what's bothering you, Charlie, I really care.' Or, ‘I'm a good listener, anything you tell me stays right here.' ”

Had Randy been soliciting information? If so, I didn't think it was for blackmail purposes, because whatever these women told him, they'd told voluntarily. Or had he planned to blackmail other people in their lives? Like Charlie's stepfather?

“How many women did he do this with, Charlie?” She pushed at a cuticle. “Six or seven that I knew of. There could've been more. A couple of us talked about it later, which is how I know Randy gave them pretty much the line he gave me. Well, all except one woman. Randy spent time with her, too, but she left Rachel's Tent kind of sudden.”

Aggie's client? The one Aggie had been encouraging to go to the police? “Do you know her name?”

Charlie furrowed her brow. “It's at the tip of my tongue, but I can't remember. Don't you hate when that happens?” She smiled and shook her head.

I told her I did.

“Right after that, one of the social workers was killed,” Charlie said, her voice somber now. “Randy changed. No more kidding around, no more flirting. I could tell he was real shook up.”

“Was this your social worker?” I asked.

Charlie shook her head. “I heard she was really nice. She was only twenty-four. I remember thinking how lucky I was. I mean, the way my life was going six years ago, it could easily have been me who was killed.”

I thought about my redhead and described her to Charlie. “Does that sound like someone Randy was friendly with?”

“Could be. Like I said, he was friendly with everyone. And there were a lot of women at Rachel's Tent.” She was working the cuticle and seemed lost in thought.

“Tell me about the letter Randy wrote,” I said. “By the way, how did he have your address?”

“We stayed in touch. Well,
I
did.” She laughed and her face took on a tinge of pink. “I always kept hoping he'd get interested in me. He's so good-looking, don't you think? He's probably dating some Hollywood actress now.”

“Charlie, I'm sorry to tell you that Randy died.”

“Randy's dead?” She stared at me and blinked rapidly. Tears filled her eyes. “You're sure?” she asked, her voice husky.

“The police think he overdosed. I'm sorry.”

She sniffled and picked at the fabric of her skirt. After a moment, she said, “I'm glad I have his letter. That's something.”

“Do you think I could see it, Charlie?”

“It's kind of personal. I can tell you what it said. It came a few weeks ago. I thought it was an invitation or something, but it was an apology.”

“For leading you on?”

She nodded. “He said he knew he hurt my feelings. He wrote about other stuff, too.” She wiped away her tears.

“Did he say anything about dealing drugs at Rachel's Tent?”

Charlie's eyes widened. “No. Was he?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, all I can tell you is that he sounded real sincere when he talked to us about staying clean. But you never know about people, do you? Huh,” she added, as if she'd just absorbed the possibility.

“So that was it? In the letter, I mean.”

“Actually, mostly he wrote about this.” Charlie raised her arm and pushed back the sleeve of her sweater to show me the red thread tied around her wrist.

“You got that when you left Rachel's Tent, right?”

“Not this one. This is the one Randy just sent, with the letter. He said the first one wasn't from Israel. There was nothing special about it. He said it was all his doing. He'd fooled Dr. Bramer and everyone else, and now he wanted to make everything right. I wonder how many other women he wrote to saying the same thing.”