The Watchman (16 page)

I enjoyed the easy camaraderie of George and Norma's home for a day. It took that long to regain my strength and adjust to life with one good arm, but I was getting better by the minute.

Pain in the shoulder had almost ceased. It wouldn't take long to heal, even if it the bone had fractured.

 



 

Hebron, Wyoming

Back at Jake's place, I called Rachel. Nothing new. The situation remained stable. That was a good thing. I avoided the subject of my injury. She didn't need the extra worry.

Next, I dialed Mabel and asked about Ted. She laughed. “I've always figured he had a hard head, now I know for certain. He hasn't even had a headache.”

Still one more call to make. I punched in Lincoln Armstrong's number. He didn't answer so I left a voicemail about my trip to San Quentin.

Later that morning, I flew back to Frisco to check out Abigail's old neighborhood.

Holiday traffic cluttered the road, and weary travelers packed the airport. Only three shopping days until Christmas.

Onboard my flight, I found myself sandwiched in the middle seat between a talkative valley girl and a man who kept the flight attendant busy bringing rum and Coke. And I paid a small fortune for the privilege.

 



 

San Francisco, California

After we landed, I grabbed a taxi. I was too much a coward to drive in freeway traffic with one arm.

Abigail's last known address lay in one of the city's high-rent districts, a gated townhouse community with well-tended lawns and bright tropical flowers. A salty mist in the air confirmed its nearness to the sea. My ID and gift of gab got me past the female guard at the entrance, and I started with the neighbors on each side of Abigail's old address.

At my first stop, a smiling cherub doorknocker greeted me. An elderly woman with a permanent frown imbedded on her brow answered my knock.

I smiled. “Good morning, I'm—”

“How did you get in here? Solicitors aren't allowed. Didn't you read the sign at the gate?”

“Ma'am I'm not selling—”

The little cherub bounced violently when its owner slammed the door in my face.

That could make even an angel frown.

Undeterred, I marched on to the next winsome cupid and dropped the knocker on the metal pad. The cherub's smile seemed to brighten.

The woman who came to the door looked about forty, except for age spots on her hands. I guessed her to be in her early fifties. Attractive in the way of many California women who aggressively pursue the fountain of youth.

Reaching inside my jacket, I pulled out my card, and handed it to her. After a slight hesitation, she scrutinized it and introduced herself as Goldie Marks.

“I'm looking for information on Abigail Marshall. She lived next door about ten years ago.”

She paused. “I knew Abby well. Is something wrong with her?”

I shrugged. “She disappeared three years back. Her husband asked me to find out what happened.”

Goldie's eyes widened. “Why did he wait three years to hire a detective?”

“It's a long story. Basically, he let the police handle it until he determined they'd stopped looking.”

She eyed my injured arm. I could almost see warnings of stranger-danger flash through her mind. She must have decided she could take me if I tried something. She stepped aside and allowed me to enter.

Inside, she led me through the entryway to a low-to-the-ground white sofa. “Would you care for a cup of green tea? I can make coffee, but the tea will be better for your arm. It has loads of antioxidants.”

I opted for the coffee. She excused herself and left for the kitchen, giving me a moment to explore the surroundings.

The living room offered a wide expanse of marble tile with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows. That panorama of sea and shoreline must have cost a mint, considering property values in the Bay area. I could buy a three-story mansion in Utah, complete with tennis courts and pool, for what she must have paid for the condominium.

Modern décor never appealed to me, but the room was striking. A white twelve-foot Christmas tree, adorned with red birds and bows, stood in the corner near a marble fireplace.

A collection of colorful porcelain and pottery decorated one wall. I'm no art connoisseur, but even my untrained eye recognized these were valuable. I rose from the sofa and strolled over to an alcove. Inside the hollow sat a white porcelain vase painted with tiny blue flowers.

While I studied the pottery, Goldie returned with a silver tea service.

She set the tray down and then came up behind me. “You have a good eye. That's the most expensive piece in the collection. It's a plum blossom vase from the Yuan Dynasty. It's more than seven hundred years old.” She spoke with practiced ease, her face alight as she related the historical pedigree of her treasures. “Do you know anything about antique porcelain?”

I shook my head. “No, I was just attracted to the lines and color.”

“My late husband was an avid collector. Most pieces here are museum quality. He also collected porcelain figurines.” Goldie waved at the opposite wall brimmed with delicate dolls in various 18
th
century costumes and poses.

“Come, let's drink the coffee before it gets cold.”

We returned to the sofa, and when I sat, my knees almost touched my chin. Low furniture did that to men of my height.

She poured the liquid into tiny cups too small for my fingers. I fidgeted with the handle, holding it with care between thumb and forefinger.

She opened her mouth as if to say something when her gaze fell on my predicament. She laughed, and almost spilled her drink. “Are you as uncomfortable as you look?” She laughed again. “Let me get you a bigger cup.”

I tossed her a grateful grin. “Thanks.”

Still smiling, Goldie took the tea service away and returned with two large mugs and a carafe. “I should know better than to bring the china out except for ladies' luncheons.”

I settled back on the couch. “What can you tell me about Abigail Marshall?”

Relaxed in the curve of an oversized chair, Goldie folded her legs beside her. “Abigail was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She could have made a fortune modeling, but she didn't have time for a career. She had a full-time job just to keep herself and her son alive. Abby married a monster. Many nights, when Ben arrived home in a rage, she and Joey came here to sleep––afraid to go home. Her prayers were answered when Ben went to prison. Unfortunately, it wasn't soon enough to keep him from killing her son.”

“Marshall killed his own son? The boy didn't die in a car accident?”

“Oh, Ben didn't drive the car that ran Joey down, but he was as guilty as if he'd been behind the wheel. “That day, Abby and I stood in the courtyard watching Joey ride his bike. Ben came home and called him to come inside. Terrified of his father, Joey froze. When he didn't come immediately, Ben charged at Joey in a fury, and the boy rode his bike into the path of an oncoming car, trying to get away. The driver wasn't moving fast, but he didn't have time to stop. Joey died instantly. I'll never forget Abigail's scream. It still haunts me. Joey was the best-behaved child I'd ever met.” Goldie's eyes clouded, and she glanced at the antiques. “He loved to look at the figurines. He never tried to touch or hold them. He just sat on the floor with his toys and stared for hours.”

She shook her head as if to erase the vision she'd resurrected. “Abigail sold her home and moved in with me after Joey's death. She was a wreck for six months. I believe she would have killed Ben if he hadn't gone to jail. She waited until the trial ended and they shipped Ben off to San Quentin. Almost a year later, Abby was gone. She left a note that she needed to start over. At first, I received a few calls and then nothing. She never returned. I suppose there were too many bad memories here.”

I pulled out the retouched Ralph Jensen picture Amos had given me. “You ever see this guy around here?”

She studied the photograph for a moment. “No, I don't think so, but he does look familiar. Who is he?”

“An old friend of Ben's––perhaps responsible for Abigail's disappearance.”

She shivered. “I hope you catch him. Abby deserved a lot better than she got.” Goldie stood and picked up our cups. I rose from the sofa with her.

“I have some photos Abby left. I'll dig them up. I didn't want to throw them away. The pictures were her prized possessions after Joey's death. She left in such a hurry...I think she just wanted to leave the pain behind. Perhaps you could take them to her husband. Would you like to stay for dinner? You really don't need to be driving around the freeways looking for a restaurant with that arm.”

The eagerness in her invitation showed a vulnerability I wouldn't have suspected−an unexpected side of her personality. Wealth had never been a cure for loneliness.

I accepted the dinner invitation but admitted I'd arrived by cab. She would probably give me tofu and rabbit food, but I could live with it for one meal. I've always had a weakness for older women who try to mother me.

After we finished the coffee, Goldie left the room. She returned with a gift box filled with photographs. “These weren't as hard to find as they might have been.” She set the carton down and looked at me, eyes wide, puzzled. “Why do you keep popping up and down like a jack-in-the-box every time I come into the room? That must be hard on your arm.”

I grinned. “It's a lifelong habit I can't seem to shake. My grandmother taught me to stand whenever a lady is standing.”

She gave me a wicked grin. “Who told you I was a lady?”

I returned the smile. “I always assume the positive.”

She motioned for me to sit. “It's charmingly gallant, and it makes me feel kind of special.” She glanced down at my hand. “How come a sweet man like you isn't married?”

I shrugged. “A personal choice I made some time ago. My job can be dangerous, and it would be hard for a wife and kids to cope with the fluctuations in my income. Its steak one week and tacos the next.”

While the meal cooked, Goldie placed the box on the sofa between us. She pulled out photos of Abigail and Joey, giving details of time and place on various shots, reliving the memories. There was a regal loveliness about Abigail Armstrong. I understood why her beauty captivated people.

Happily, the evening meal turned out to be great. Grilled salmon steak, rather than tofu. Over the salad, Goldie spoke of the past with Abigail. “Abby spent many nights in the emergency room from beatings she received at Ben's hand. Even worse was the damage he did to her self-esteem, making her think the abuse was her fault.” My hostess sat silent for a moment. “It's a pity that women like Abby continue to suffer. Giving domestic abuse national attention would certainly help.”

“The real issue is authorities aren't notified until it's too late. And when they are notified, unfortunately, the cases often fall through bureaucratic cracks.”

Her eyes reflected an inner struggle, perhaps between good manners and conviction. Conviction won. Goldie dropped her napkin on the table. “Yeah, it seems Abby fell through the cracks. Her husband goes to prison and dies, yet he still manages to get to her from the grave. That makes me mad.”

“Whoa,” I said, unable to believe she'd taken offense at my comment. “I agree with you. It's obscene that a woman can take all the precautions and still wind up dead. I just don't see how federal intervention would have stopped it. The government breaks more social programs than it fixes.”

A bright pink flush covered her cheeks. “Well, somebody needs to protect abuse victims.”

I nodded as I picked at the salad. “You're totally right, and I think you have the answer and just haven't seen it.”

She didn't speak right away. Instead she busied herself removing the salad plates. Shortly she returned with the salmon and grilled vegetables, and placed the food in front of me.

She took a seat and snapped her napkin onto her lap.

I raised both hands. “What I mean is that you stepped in to help Abby. That's what everyone needs to do. When we see or suspect domestic violence, report it. Don't just turn a blind eye to the situation.”

She nodded and a grin teased the corners of her mouth. She stared at me for a full minute. “You have way too much charm for my own good.”

We finished the meal in amicable silence. I stood and looked into her eyes. “Are we still good here?”

Had I been a jerk? To make amends, I helped carry the dishes into the kitchen. “The fish was great. Normally I find salmon too dry, but yours was moist and the flavor was excellent.”

She smiled. “It's the magic of my herb marinade.”

“You did good, Goldie, and it was probably good for my health. My system may go into shock.”

Ripples of laughter filled the kitchen. “You can thank me when you're ninety-two.”

While she put away the leftovers, I noticed a metal cross, enclosed in a silver shadowbox on the wall. “That looks old.”

She walked over to my side. “It's very old, from the First Crusade, somewhere around 1095-1099 A.D.

I drew closer to the ancient artifact. Delicate engravings on the metal looked worn, but still impressive. “Are you a Christian?”

She rolled her eyes. “Hardly.”

“Perhaps we need to talk about that sometime. It's better to live life as though there is a God, than to live life as though there isn't...and die and discover otherwise.”

Goldie shrugged and then hooked her arm through mine. “Come on. I'll drive you to the airport and save you cab fare.”

On the flight home, haunting images filled my mind of a beautiful woman and her freckle-faced son―the sorrow they shared in a life all too short. My own memories surfaced, and the wind whispered a reminder.