I could see where she was going. “So you think Michael’s memory of the two guys digging is just more of the same.”
“Basically,” she said. “How did he come up with this story in the first place? Doesn’t that sound suspect to you?”
“I’ll admit I was skeptical at first,” I said. “He says he read a reference to Mary Claire in the paper and it triggered his memory of the whole event.”
“That was years ago. What makes him so sure?”
“He said he saw them on his sixth birthday, July 21, and that’s how he made the association. Your mother left him at Billie Kirkendall’s while she ran errands. He was wandering around the property when he saw them.”
“It sounds bogus to me.”
“It wasn’t his imagination. There was something buried there.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “Michael’s a drama queen. He can’t seem to help himself. Sometimes I think he’s delusional or spaced out on drugs. He’s incapable of telling the truth. It’s not in his nature. He can’t tell the difference between what’s really true and what he imagines.”
That caught my attention. In my brief relationship with him, I could cite my experience in support of her claim. He was evasive, omitting critical information from his account of himself. When I called him on it, he’d corrected himself and filled in the blanks. If I hadn’t, I would have ended up with an erroneous impression. I felt protective nonetheless. I didn’t want to sit and say nothing while his sister trashed him. “I don’t think he fabricated the story. He was six. Maybe he didn’t understand what he’d witnessed, but that doesn’t mean he lied.”
“That’s exactly my point. He takes a simple moment and he embellishes, invents, and exaggerates. Next thing you know, there’s an elaborate conspiracy afoot. He sees two men digging a hole and suddenly it’s about Mary Claire’s murder and her being buried in that grave.”
“You’re implying that he did this deliberately, which I find hard to believe.”
“I’m not telling you this stuff just to hear myself talk. This is how his mind works. You can’t believe a word he says.”
“This comes a little late from my perspective.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You haven’t seen the last of him. It’s never over with him. Have you met any of his friends?”
The shift in subject caught me off guard. “One. A girl named Madaline. He told me she was addicted to heroin . . .”
“And now she’s clean, but not sober,” Diana interjected, derisively. “Did he mention she’s a lush? Twenty-two years old and she’s on probation for public drunkenness. Of course, he’s the one who ferries her to AA meetings. He collects losers like her, anyone in worse shape than he is, if you can imagine such a thing. Sutton’s wounded birds. He gets into rescue mode so he can feel good about himself. There’s usually two or three of them hanging around at any given time. They move in. They borrow money. They take his car without permission and wind up in fender-benders that he ends up paying for out of pocket. Some land in jail, while loudly protesting their innocence. He bails them out and brings them home again because they have nowhere else to go. That’s when they steal his credit cards and go on a spending jag.”
“Poor judgment.”
“Very poor. I can’t tell you the money he’s gone through. What scares me is thinking about what’ll happen when he’s emptied all his bank accounts. He’s never really worked. He’s held jobs, but none for long. The money he inherited is the only thing keeping him afloat. Once that’s gone, he’ll end up on my doorstep, begging for help. What’s my choice then? I take him in or he ends up living on the street.”
“You’re not obligated.”
“That’s what my brothers tell me.”
“Why do it then?”
“I guess I feel guilty because he’s such a mess and the rest of us are okay . . .”
As she went on, I could hear my own story echoed in hers. My grievances, my determination to hang on to everything that seemed unfeeling or unfair. Her complaints were legitimate, but so what? The recital of her woes only made matters worse, keeping the pain alive when it should have been laid to rest.
Diana must have realized I’d clocked out. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“I have family issues of my own and they sound just like yours. Different scenario, but the angst is the same. Personally, I’m getting tired of hearing myself whine. And if I’m tired, what about the people around me who have to put up with my shit?”
“It’s not the same.”
“Sure it is. What’s the point in going over and over it? I’ll bet you’ve told the same story a hundred times. Why don’t you give it a rest?”
“If I give it up, Michael wins. Bad behavior triumphs over good yet again. Well, I’m sick of it. After the havoc he’s wreaked, why should I let him off the hook?”
I could feel myself getting irritated. I understood where she was coming from, but the events she’d described were years in the past. Waltzing into my office to unload it all on me was out of line. She’d turned venom into a lifestyle and it wasn’t attractive. On first meeting, I’d been put off by her aggressiveness. Now I was put off by her attempt to rope me into Sutton bashing.
“What hook, Diana? He’s not on the hook except in your mind. He’s living his own life and if he’s screwing up right and left, what’s it to you?”
Her smile was tight. “You say that now, but you’re not done with him. Trust me. You gave him credence which has been in short supply of late. He’ll come back. Some new crisis will emerge, some disturbing turn of events . . .”
“That’s my lookout, don’t you think?”
“You really don’t believe me, do you?”
“I’ve heard every word. I understand why you’re pissed off at him, but I take offense at the wholesale condemnation. Give the kid a break. You came here to warn me. You’ve done that and I thank you. I’m on red alert.”
That shut her down. She withdrew as though I’d slapped her.
She snatched up her shoulder bag and took out a business card. “Here’s my number if you should ever need to get in touch. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”
As she reached the door, she paused. “You want to hear the best part?”
I was going to fire off a smart remark, but I held my tongue.
“Six days after Daddy died, Michael saw the light. He became a retractor. He disavowed his claims about the sexual abuse. He said he realized Marty Osborne had planted all those memories. Oops. Big mistake. He took it all back. So that’s who you’re dealing with. Have a nice day.”
She left the office, banging the door shut behind her.
11
I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, the tavern located half a block from my apartment. It’s the perfect setting for the neighborhood drinking crowd and serves as a ready substitute for my nonexistent social life. In the summer months the softball rowdies dominate the bar, celebrating victories so minor they scarcely warrant column space in the local sports pages. From time to time they put together touch-football teams, the losers paying off the winners with a pony keg. Prior to the Super Bowl, there are endless noisy debates, arguments, and wagers, which are finally settled by pitching in ten bucks each and drawing names from an oversized beer stein Rosie keeps behind the bar.
Rosie is Hungarian by birth and though she’s been in Santa Teresa most of her life, she refuses to give up her accent or her tortured sentence structure. She and Henry’s brother William were married Thanksgiving Day three and a half years ago. It’s an unlikely match, but one that’s turned out to be good for both of them.
I took a seat in my favorite booth at the rear of the bar. Before I could get my windbreaker off, Rosie appeared and set an empty wineglass on the table. She’d apparently just dyed her hair, which was a deeply saturated shade of red I’d never actually seen on a human head. She held up a wine jug with a screw top and a label pasted on the front, MONGREL WHITE, 1988. She upende
d the jug and poured the wine, which actually made a glug-glug-glug sound as it tumbled into my glass.
“I know you supposed to sip first and say if you like, but this is all I got. Take or leave him.”
“I’ll take.”
“You need eating better. Is too thin so what I’m giving you is bean soup with pork knuckle. I’d say Hungarian name, but you forget so what’s to bother. Henry’s bring me fresh-baked rolls. I give you plenty with a side of Hungarian cheese spread you gonna love.”
“Fine. I can’t wait.”
There was no point in arguing with her because she always gets her way. I find bossy women restful as they take all the decision making out of your hands. Conniving women are the ones who really set my teeth on edge, though Rosie probably does a bit of that as well.
She went to the kitchen, order pad in hand, and returned moments later with the promised repast on a tray. She balanced the tray on the table edge and set the big bowl of soup in front of me, followed by a basket of napkin-wrapped rolls and a ramekin of cheese spread. I placed a hand on the napkin and felt the warm rolls underneath.
I ate with a series of oinky little sounds consistent with a voracious appetite and a thorough appreciation of what was going down my gullet. At 7:00 I decided to head home, my intention being to change into my sweats and lounge around on my sofa reading the paperback mystery I was halfway through. I shrugged into my windbreaker and adjusted the collar. With the sun down, it would be chilly walking even half a block. I zipped up and hoisted my bag across my shoulder. When I tucked a hand in one pocket, my fingers curled around the tag Cheney’d dropped in my palm the day before. I pulled it out and studied it, which I hadn’t had a chance to do. The plastic disk was encrusted with dirt. I crossed the room to the bar where William was working, dapper as usual in his dark gray wool serge suit pants, white dress shirt, and tie. He’d shed his suit coat and placed it on a coat hanger suspended on a wall hook nearby. His only other concessions to his job were the two cones of paper towel he’d secured over his shirt sleeves with rubber bands to keep his cuffs clean.
I put my check on the bar along with a ten-dollar bill. My meal was $7.65, including the bad wine. “Keep the change,” I said.
William swooped up both. “Thanks. You want anything else? Rosie made an apple strudel that will knock your socks off.”
“I better not, but I’d love a glass of soda water.”
“Certainly. Would you care for ice?”
“Nope.”
“A slice of lemon or lime?”
“Just plain.”
I watched as he filled a Tom Collins glass with soda from an eight-button dispenser gun. “You have an extra bar towel I could borrow? A dirty one will do.”
He reached under the bar and removed a damp towel he must have stowed earlier. William’s a stickler for sanitation. He sees the world as one big petri dish fermenting god knows what microbes and death-dealing bacteria.
I perched on a bar stool where the light was good and cleaned the grunge off the tag. On one side there was a phone number; on the other, the dog’s name, which was Ulf. I lifted the limp leather collar to my nose, noting that it still carried the faint scent of rot. I put the tag back in my jacket pocket, returned the bar towel, and gave William a quick wave.
Outside, the night air felt chilly and the street was deserted. It was only a little after seven, but the neighbors were home and buttoned up for the night. After twenty-one years, it probably wasn’t possible to determine whether Ulf had died of old age or if he’d been put down because of illness or injury. The “pirates” probably had a good laugh at Sutton’s expense, spinning the yarn about a treasure map. I was guessing Sutton would have been just as enthralled by a doggie funeral with a bit of pomp and ceremony thrown in.
I wasn’t sure what had generated my musings except a lingering defensiveness about Sutton’s ending up with egg on his face. How his sister must have loved that, seeing him make a public fool of himself. Ah, well. Once I reached my apartment and closed the door behind me, I secured the locks, turned on a couple of lamps, and adjusted the louvered shutters. Then I changed into my comfies, grabbed a quilt, and settled on the couch to read. Happily, I had a weekend coming up and I intended to goof off for the whole of it, which is exactly what I did.
Monday morning was a wash—busy, but otherwise forgettable. The afternoon was taken up with a due-diligence request for an Arizona mortgage company interested in hiring a high-level executive. According to his résumé, he’d lived and worked in Santa Teresa from June of 1969 until February of 1977. There was nothing to suggest he was hiding information, but the Human Resources director had been in touch, asking me to do a sweep of public records. If irregularities came to light, they’d send one of their investigators to do a follow-up. I was looking at half a day’s work at best, but it wouldn’t be strenuous. A paycheck is a paycheck, and I was happy to oblige.
At 10:00, I walked over to the courthouse, and spent the next two hours trolling the index of civil and criminal suits, property liens, tax assessments, judgments, bankruptcy filings, marriage licenses, and divorce decrees. There was no evidence of wrongdoing and no suggestion the fellow had ever crossed swords with the law. The problem was that there was no evidence of the guy at all.
I’d been given an address on the upper east side. On his application, the guy claimed he’d bought the house in 1970 and lived there until he sold it in 1977, but the owner of record was someone else entirely. Since the public library was just across the street, I left the courthouse and jaywalked, approaching the entrance with a suitable sense of anticipation. I love shit like this, catching liars in the act. His fabrications had been so specific and detailed, he must have felt safe, assuming no one would ever bother to check.
I returned to the reference department, where I’d spent such a satisfactory hour the week before. I shed my windbreaker and hung it across the back of a chair while I pulled the Santa Teresa city directories for the years in question. Again, a fingertip search turned up no trace of the guy. I cross-checked the address in the Haines and Polk and came up with nothing. Well, wasn’t that a kick in the pants?
I was on my way out of the building when I remembered the dog tag. I took it out again and studied it, tempted by the phone number on one side. It wouldn’t take five minutes to look it up in the Haines. Maybe I’d never know the whole story, but I might glean the odd bit of information. The issue wasn’t pressing. My curiosity was idle and wouldn’t have warranted a separate trip to the library. However, I was already on the premises and the effort required would be minimal.
I returned to the reference department, which I was beginning to regard as my adjunct office. I took out both the 1966 and 1967 Polk and Haines directories and sat down at what I was beginning to think of as my personal table. I put the tag down beside me and leafed through the Haines until I found the same three-digit prefix. I worked my way down the sequence of numbers until I found a match. In both directories, the number was assigned to a P. F. Sanchez. By flipping back and forth between the Haines and the Polk, I found an address for him, though it wasn’t a street name I recognized. His occupation was contractor; no indication of a wife.
I returned the directories to the shelf and then crossed to the section where the telephone directories were lined up. I pulled the current Santa Teresa phone book and looked in the S’s, running down the listings until I came to “Sanchez, P. F.” His telephone number was the same, as was his address on Zarina Avenue. Where the heck was that?
I walked back to my office, sat down at my desk, and hauled out my Thomas Guide to Santa Teresa and Perdido Counties. Zarina Avenue was actually in Perdido County, one of half a dozen streets that formed a grid in the tiny coastal town of Puerto, a name that had morphed into the longer Puerto Polvoriento, which was then shortened to P. Pol and from there to Peephole. I sat and pondered the geography. I’d hoped to feel better informed, which in some ways I was. What puzzled me now was why a man who lived in Peep
hole would bury his dead dog in Horton Ravine, a good fifteen miles north. There must have been some quirky set of circumstances to explain the digging of the dog’s grave at such a remove.
I put my feet up on the desk, leaned back in my swivel chair, and put a call through to Cheney Phillips at the PD. After two rings he picked up and when I identified myself, I could hear the smile in his voice. “Hey, kid. I hope you didn’t take offense at my teasing you about the doggie exhumation.”
“You know me better than that. I’m just thankful Mary Claire Fitzhugh wasn’t buried in that hole,” I said. “I’m sorry about the waste of manpower. I owe you one.”
“If I had a dollar for every lead that didn’t pan out, I’d be rich. Anyway, I’m the one who referred the kid to you in the first place so it’s not like you cooked this up on your own.”
“I do feel for him. How embarrassing.”
“He’ll survive,” Cheney said.
“So what’s the story on Diana Sutton?”
There was a pause. “Refresh my memory.”
“Sorry. I should have said Diana Alvarez.”
“The reporter? What about her?”
“Did you know she was Michael Sutton’s sister?”
“You’re not serious. I knew she was persistent, but I wrote it off to her job. How do you know her?”
“I don’t, or at least I didn’t until Friday morning. She came into my office, took a seat, and unloaded with both barrels.”
I filled him in on Sutton’s sorry tale of woe, at the end of which he said, “Even if I’d known his sordid history, I’d have reacted the same way. I thought his story had a ring of truth.”
“Me, too. Apparently, she’s made it her mission to screw him over any chance she can. The dog gave her the ammunition to go after him again.”
“Hold on a second.” He put a hand over the mouthpiece and then came back. “I gotta scoot. Anything else?”
“One quick question. Can you tell me the dog’s breed? I know the body must have been in bad shape, but could you tell anything about him from what was left?”