Nothing Done In Secret
R. S. Edwards
Copyright 2011 Scott Edwards
Quote
For nothing is hidden, that will not be revealed; nor anything secret, that will not be known and come to light.
World English Bible
CHAPTER 1
Wednesday, May 10
He had been thinking about homicide when he met her. The Department of Justice website showed Segovia County’s murder rate was less than a quarter of the statewide average. During two decades in Sacramento, photographs of two hundred victims appeared on Captain Moffat’s desk and sometimes in his dreams. In four months on his new job, he had yet to see one. The lanky, 46-year old policeman would not have guessed that the day he met this lady with the red hair and emerald eyes marked the end of his peaceful interval.
Moffat and his two companions, working in silence at their desks in the 1870’s Brannan Building raised their heads simultaneously. They heard footsteps on the oak floorboards and a powerful female voice approaching the interior door. The footsteps stopped. It was quiet for a moment then the door, it’s stainless steel plaque imprinted with black vinyl lettering that read Investigations - Crimes Against Persons, opened quickly. Standing just in the doorway, Veronica Gillis slid a cell phone into her purse and surveyed the modest office taking in the three workspaces, extra tables and file cabinets, and a pair of original 19th century double hung oak-framed windows.
“Hello, everyone,” she said with a warm smile. “I’m looking for…” -she identified the object of her search, the older of two men - “Captain Moffat.” She nodded to his companions, an older woman and a young man, and walked into the office. “Captain Moffat, I mentioned you last night to George and Dennis. Dennis suggested I drop by. I am Ronnie Gillis.”
Mrs. Grubb recognized Gillis, a 52-year old real estate phenomenon from the northeast part of the county. The hat was gaudy. Her hair was backcombed too much and the color garish--Mrs. Grubb would have called it a brassy butterscotch--but she admired Ronnie’s tailored jacket and skirt and the slimming affect they provided.
Sergeant Jason De la Peña watched Gillis move across the room. The visitor was a welcome distraction from the paperwork that had occupied the Sergeant since he joined the force two weeks ago after four years with the Los Angeles Police Department. He noticed the padding and curves of her body and was amused that this woman more than 25 years older could increase his heart rate.
Detective Captain Alexander Moffat observed a woman who considers herself very important and wants you to know she socializes with the County Executive and the Chief of Police. He noted the pumpkin color of her suit and hat. Jean has never worn a color like that, he thought
“I’ll only take a minute of your time.” She shook his hand firmly and handed him her business card.
“Gillis Executive Real Estate Group” it read. Moffat wondered why the chief of police would send a real estate agent his way. He offered her the chair next to his desk. She began speaking before he sat down.
In a low voice, leaning toward Moffat she said “I am interested in a parcel you own on the Miner’s Flat town square. I can make you a very attractive cash offer or, if you like, I might be able to trade a lot near your home in the vineyard here in Segovia.”
Moffat had no idea he owned real estate in Miner’s Flat. Since he and Jean had moved from Sacramento he had never been there and had only occasionally heard of the town fifteen miles northeast and 2000 feet higher than Segovia, a city of 50,000 in California’s Gold Country. The news did not surprise him. His wife had been making usually very profitable real estate investments since the third year of their marriage.
Mrs. Grubb watched Gillis evaluate Captain Moffat and thought she saw the instant when Ronnie realized that the Captain was definitely not the decision maker in a matter of this sort.
“Mrs. Gillis, my wife handles all of our investments,” Moffat said.
Gillis nodded, smiling, then added, “Please call me Ronnie, Captain. Would you tell Mrs. Moffat that I’ll call this evening? I am a very persuasive lady.” She stood and touched Moffat on the arm. “I know she’ll be interested in what I have to show her.”
Moffat stood and offered his hand. Mrs. Grubb saw Ronnie’s eyes move from head to toe of the Captain’s tall, lean body.
De la Peña watched her walk out. He smelled a flowery perfume that reminded him of his ninth grade English teacher.
The door closed and there was silence again.
* * *
Mrs. Grubb knew from Ronnie’s reputation that she was, in fact, the best salesperson in the county. Ronnie had never met Jean, though, and Mrs. Grubb thought it would be a fascinating encounter to witness. About the same time, Moffat also thought it would be a memorable meeting. He decided he would make sure to miss it.
De la Peña looked at his boss. Moffat had returned to his review of cold case files.
* * *
The Miner’s Flat Café is housed in the ground floor of a 120-year old wooden building, on the road into town one block from the town square. Its wooden sidewalk and posts and overhung roof were constructed about ten years earlier along with those of all the buildings in the historic district, successfully giving the restaurant and the town the old west look the renewal designers had in mind. The shop’s proprietor Donna Ferguson had inherited the building and the business from her father. Returning from service in World War II, Samuel Ferguson sold what was left of a family mining operation that dated back to 1850 and started his own restaurant. The earnings were just enough to support him and his family for three decades with little left over for luxuries or retirement.
Donna had had more luck with the business. There was a steady growth in tourism in the 80’s and 90’s. There was also an influx of new citizens from the “Silicone Valley East” commercial development that came with the rapid expansion of San Jose’s computer and Internet industries into lower cost areas of Northern California. Either of these factors would have been enough. Together, they turned the Miner’s Flat Café into a source of considerable income, only part of which was reported to the IRS every year.
Donna took back her maiden name after divorcing the father of her two children when the younger one was ten. The divorce had been good emotionally with the unexpected benefit that now, just turned 52, she kept all the restaurant income for herself. The kids had moved away, one to San Francisco and one to Stockton but visited often. The Café was frequented by locals and tourists and was the informal information center of the town.
There was no missing the Land Rover with the custom vibrant orange pearl paint. When she saw Veronica Gillis pull up, Donna removed a folded card marked “Reserved” from a booth by the window. She set a place mat, napkin and a single knife, fork and spoon at the table. Ronnie walked in and sat down while engaged in a lively cell phone conversation about square footage, Spanish tile and wrought iron. She smiled warmly at her high school classmate when Donna arrived with a cup of dark Colombian Supreme, a small pitcher of light cream and the day’s menu.
At an inside booth, across the aisle, three tables away but in Ronnie’s direct line of sight, a third member of the Class of ’72, Cheryl Haugen sat with her 77-year old mother Catherine Martius. Cheryl glanced at Ronnie then spoke to her mother in a low voice. The two looked and whispered again two times more.
Ronnie was midway through her avocado omelet and on her fourth phone call when Cheryl and Catherine passed her table. Cheryl turned and walked back, her face beginning to redden. Ronnie held up her hand. The phone conversation wound down and finally Ronnie gave Cheryl a greeting and smile identical to that which she had given Donna.
“I want to talk to you.” Cheryl controlled her voice in
an effort to hide her anger and ignored Gillis’ protest that she was very busy. “I know you didn’t treat my kids fairly. You were their agent. You were supposed to get them the best price. You talked them into $50,000 less than the house is worth and now I’ve found out that you’re in partnership with the buyer.”
Ronnie smiled again. “Now Cheryl, I see you’re upset. But that price was the best I could get. You know I cut my commission.” Comparable sales Cheryl may have seen were for larger lots, Ronnie explained, choosing not to address the conflict of interest in representing a seller when she was one of the buyers. Her phone rang. Ronnie apologized saying she absolutely had to take the call.
“I want to see you. This isn’t over.” By now Cheryl’s neck flushed bright red. Choking back tears, she took her mother’s arm and left the restaurant.
Beyond her anger over what she considered Ronnie’s crooked dealing, Cheryl would admit that she was just unhappy now. Her daughter and son-in-law were moving to Colorado. She would miss the time spent with her daughter--the shared meals, shopping and other day-to-day activities. Soon to be left only with her mother, Cheryl feared that within another few years she would be completely alone.
There was a lifetime of other reasons to be angry with Ronnie. As a bank mortgage officer, Cheryl had business with Ronnie and she always seemed to come out with the worse side of the deal. There had been other problems too. On foot, Cheryl and Catherine rounded the corner on their way home before Ronnie left the restaurant in the opposite direction.
* * *
The Gillis home stood at the top of a steep slope on a grass-covered hill surrounded by pines. A paved driveway curved up to a large, Tudor-style wooden house with leaded glass front windows, two gables, a steep wooden shake roof and a prominent chimney. About three o’clock, a slim fifteen-year old boy with dark hair and pale skin shut off the mower. Aaron read the next item on his aunt’s list of chores then tucked it back into his front pocket. He tapped his iPod, chose Jimmy Eat World’s The Middle, inserted the ear buds and picked up pruning shears to start the job of trimming the twelve mock orange shrubs that line the driveway. It was a sunny spring afternoon. Aaron wiped sweat from his face with the front of his gray tee shirt. He waved at his grandmother’s poodle watching him from the top of the lawn in the shade of a thirty-foot Douglas fir. Cocoa stared at Aaron, panting, a tennis ball between its paws.
Aaron’s aunt insisted the shrubs be trimmed in a perfect ball above their four-foot trunks and refused to accept that nature did not exactly intend this shape. She was never satisfied with Aaron’s attempts at sculpting the shrubs. This thought was in his mind along with the music, worry about finishing the chores and his homework in the hours left in the day and nagging feelings of embarrassment about an experience at school this morning. That last thing was becoming a daily occurrence.
Aaron saw the orange Land Rover turn into the drive. From the opposite direction a dark Jaguar XKZ turned in and followed the Land Rover, passing within inches of Aaron as it ascended the slope. Ronnie opened the door, swung her knees around and stepped gracefully out of the vehicle. From the Jaguar, Aaron’s schoolmate Scott Conti emerged. He walked toward Ronnie, ignoring Aaron. Aaron had never seen his aunt and Scott together and so, on this occasion, he felt twice the usual stress. Scott, two years older, was one of the guys who made school an ordeal for Aaron.
Shaking her head, Ronnie studied the shrubs. “Use the blower to get the grass clippings out of the flower beds,” she said. “Speed it up. I’m only going to pay you for two hours and I want everything on the list done today.” She turned and walked toward a glass- enclosed patio at the side of the house. Scott followed her, glaring at Aaron, then with a flick downward of his wrist, he made an obscene gesture. He finished his message silently mouthing “homo” to Aaron, and then ran up the steps to join Ronnie.
A senior at Miner’s Flat High School, Scott was athletic - he played tennis, soccer and field hockey--with dark hair, blue eyes and a smooth complexion with a hint of pink in the cheeks. He had reached a height of six feet in the last two months. His parents, Nicholas and Diane started a small software company in 1988 that became a stunning success. Two years ago, they moved their business and most of its eighty employees to northern Segovia County to enjoy the beauty, clean air and lower real estate costs of the Gold Country. They gave their only child every advantage and every luxury. He had his own VISA card for clothes, food, and entertainment and to pay for gas for any of the four family cars he chose to drive. Still, Scott believed, it’s nice to have some cash of your own without your parents knowing what you spend it on. So, he had found a part time job: retail distribution of marijuana and methamphetamine. It was this job that brought him to Ronnie that afternoon. Most of his customers were schoolmates or people in their early 20’s. Ronnie had been directed to Scott last September by a twenty eight year old stockbroker (with whom she had had a brief, delightful affair) who knew the older sister of a classmate of Scott’s. Ronnie would pay cash but on this day, Scott also wanted help with a party he and his friends were planning.
“I have your delivery, Miss.” Scott beamed as he pulled a plastic bag with bright orange pills from a pocket of his backpack. Ronnie opened her purse, pushed her hand between a lady-like revolver and her red leather wallet to the bottom. She found a half-inch of twenties folded in a sterling silver clip. She counted out one hundred dollars and then pointed to the table below the kitchen window. “There’s the tip for your delivery service.”
Scott saw a case of Sierra Nevada pale ale and a quart of Stoli in a box. He laid the vodka on its side on top of the beer then lifted them with his left arm.
“When is the party?” With a giggle she suggested Scott might want to invite Aaron. They laughed together. Ronnie patted him on the small of the back. “Have a great time.” She opened the glass door and watched him walk to the Jaguar, passing and ignoring Aaron.
Ronnie’s mother Laraine had walked quietly to Ronnie’s side as Scott descended the steps. She watched with Ronnie. Lifting a glass of Scotch and water to her lips she said “Handsome boy. He looks a lot like your real father if I remember correctly.”
Ronnie shook her head. “Forget it, Mother.” She suspected her mother’s involvement with a number of men beyond her three husbands but Ronnie happened to look so much like Jim Hughes with whom Laraine had been married in 1954, that she had no doubt about her paternity.
* * *
Moffat was on the phone with Records when Jean called. Mrs. Grubb took the message. De la Peña watched as she brought it to Moffat’s desk with an exaggerated display of sympathy.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” she said, handing him the note.
“Well, I knew it wouldn’t last.” Moffat smiled and tucked the note in his front pocket. The Sergeant asked what the bad new was. Moffat nodded to Mrs. Grubb to explain.
“Mrs. Moffat is an excellent cook...a gourmet cook, really. But she’s also a bit of a health nut. Captain Moffat doesn’t know what to expect unless she calls with a list of items to pick up on his way home. Apparently, tonight’s menu involves textured vegetable protein, mushrooms, Brussels sprouts and fresh beets.”
Hearing the menu drew a shudder from the younger man. Moffat smiled then returned to his review of the unsolved cases for the half hour remaining of the workday.
Alexander and Jean Moffat enjoyed a very happy marriage. They met in college, Alexander a criminal justice major in his last year and Jean a sophomore studying English literature. He had never had a steady girlfriend but after mutual friends introduced them, Moffat decided he wanted her. Jean had a boyfriend in high school but no serious relationships since. She was less certain about a future with this tall, skinny, serious young man but he kept asking her out and she kept accepting. His parents approved, hers were less enthusiastic due to his career plans. Six months after Alexander graduated and joined the Sacramento City Police they were married. He was 22, she was 21. A year and a half later Allison, their only
child was born.
A few months after Allison’s arrival, Alexander inherited $30,000 from the estate of his father’s older sister. She and her late husband had never had children. She left a house and some investments to be divided among her many nieces and nephews. Jean, even then managing the young couple’s finances, invested the funds in residential rental property. Over the years she expanded her holdings. Using the growing equity, rental receipts and Alexander’s salary to secure new loans, she borrowed to buy more and more property. In the early years, Jean took an active role in managing the properties, handling tenants, repairs and an occasional eviction. She never worked outside the home after Allison was born. By the time Alexander was forty, Jean had amassed enough wealth to remove money as a factor in his career plans. A few years later he would have other reasons for leaving the Sacramento police force.
Five years ago, Jean bought ten acres of the Gold Country in rolling foothills just outside of Segovia. Two years after that the neighboring lot was sold to a group of young winemakers from Palo Alto. They wanted Jean’s property with its gentle slope of the hill and western exposure for Grenache blanc grapes. Jean declined to sell but agreed to a long-term lease of most of the land. Then she took pen and paper and designed her dream house. A contractor was hired. Jean provided constant unsolicited advice throughout construction. With over twenty years service, Alexander was eligible for retirement. Eligible but not ready. He was, however, ready for a change. He began a job search that resulted in his current job as Captain, head of Detectives, of the City/County Police Force that was formed in 1985 when the Segovia City Police Department was merged with the Segovia County Sheriff’s Department.
* * *
In the old section of Miner’s Flat - with homes built between 1880 and 1910 - Catherine Martius walked the two blocks to Major Franke’s house on Mariposa Street. Her white tennis shoes contrasted with the sidewalk stained black from fifty years under 75 foot interior live oaks with their constant dropping of leaves, acorns and blossoms. Preoccupied as she was with the ugly scene at Donna’s café, Catherine realized she had been looking at her feet as she walked. She reminded herself firmly to keep her head up and eyes forward. Too many older people fall because they watch their feet. Enjoy the walk, she told herself. Lilacs bloomed in nearly every yard. They were her favorite flower and the scent was wonderful. She took twenty paces before her thoughts drifted to her friend Martha Pane, their neighbor and fellow church member Lewis Franke who was dying and the stressful times the three would surely face in the next few days.