Authors: J.A. Jance
Ali and her mother exchanged glances. As far as Ali was concerned, April’s preoccupation with her wardrobe seemed very cold-blooded. Edie was the one who answered. “For the services, you mean?” she asked.
April nodded. “And for interviews, too,” she said. “Last night at the hospital I happened to run into someone named Sheila Rosenburg. She wants to set up an interview with me.”
Happened to run into her?
Ali thought.
That was no accident.
“An interview for Court TV?” she asked.
April nodded again. “You know Sheila then?”
Ali had flat-out refused Sheila Rosenburg’s offer of an interview, and she hoped April would do the same, but it wasn’t Ali’s place to tell her so.
It’s April’s decision, not mine,
she reminded herself.
“I know of Sheila Rosenburg,” Ali answered aloud, “but I don’t know her personally. I’m concerned that she’ll try to turn your mother’s death and Paul’s into some kind of media circus.”
April seemed unconcerned. “Some people pay for interviews,” April replied, reaching for another pastry. “And she said she knew of an author who might be able to get me a book contract—you know, so I can write about all this while it’s going on, sort of like a diary or a journal. She said people are really interested in true crime. It might even end up being a bestseller. I wouldn’t have to do the actual writing, either, since I’m not that good at it. My name would be on the cover of the book, but the publisher would hire somebody else to do that part of it, a ghostwriter, she called it.”
Ali was appalled. Shocked and appalled, but her mother was the one who spoke up.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Edie asked. “I know this is all happening to you, April, but it’s also happening to your baby. It’s going to be part of Sonia Marie’s history, too. Do you want to bring a child into the world with that kind of notoriety?”
It’s also happening to me,
Ali thought, but there didn’t seem to be any point in mentioning it. April was totally absorbed in her own concerns.
“Maybe not,” April agreed, “but I think I’m going to need the money.”
“Surely we’ll be able to work something out so you won’t have to lay all our lives bare for the world to see,” Ali said.
“I hope so,” April said. She stood up. “I’d better go make that call. Those detectives said they’d be by to see me later this morning, too. I’d like to have some clean clothes to wear before they get here.”
April went out and closed the door behind her.
“Whoa!” Edie Larson said. “That girl is a lot tougher than she looks.”
Ali nodded. “Maybe she’s a chip off her mother’s block.”
“And smoking while she’s pregnant?” Edie shook her head.
At that juncture Edie’s cell phone rang with a call from Bob Larson back in Sedona. While Edie brought her husband up to date, Ali’s phone rang, too. It was Chris.
“Sorry I was so cranky last night,” he said. “I felt like you were leaving me out of everything.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said.
“So do you want me to come out there or not?”
“Not right now,” she said. “I’ll probably need you to come over later, but for now I think Grandma and I have things under control.”
“All right then,” he said. “But remember, keep me posted.”
Edie was still chatting on the phone, so Ali returned to her computer.
Ms. Reynolds,
You fired my uncle yesterday without giving him even so much as a day’s notice much less two weeks. And then you have the gall to say you have no idea what you could have done or whether or not you should apologize? How dare you?
A
NDREA
M
ORALES
But I didn’t fire anyone,
Ali thought.
What the hell is this woman raving about?
Then, sitting staring at the words on the computer screen, Ali had a sudden flash of memory. She remembered coming home late one night to find the house alive with the smells of cooking meat and masa. Following her nose and the sound of voices and laughter to the brightly lit kitchen, Ali had found Elvira and several others, women and girls both, clustered in the kitchen busily making dozens of tamales in advance of Paul’s annual Cinco de Mayo celebration. One of the women had been Jesus Sanchez’s wife, Clemencia. Had one of those girls been his niece, perhaps? Ali had a dim memory that one of them had been named Andrea, but she wasn’t sure.
Still puzzled, Ali sent off a four-word reply:
Dear Andrea,
Who is your uncle?
R
EGARDS
,
A
LI
R
EYNOLDS
Ali worked her way through a long list of well-wishing e-mails, most of them begging her not to abandon her blog. Because many of the notes touched on Paul Grayson’s death, she didn’t post any of them but answered each one directly with the same kind of non-engagement strategy she had employed earlier. It was gratifying to know that her readers were as reluctant to give up on her as she was on them. Finally, she turned to write her response.
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Sunday, September 18, 2005
In my last post I said I was going to step away from cutloose for a time, but it turns out that was a lie. I don’t want to step away. I’ve heard from many of you this morning. Most have wished me well and urged me not to abandon ship. So I’m not going to.
I’ve been doing this for more than six months now—yes, last week was my half-year blogiversary. In the past, there has always been a sense of immediacy to what I’ve written. My posts have offered me a way to examine things that were going on in my life. I’ve been amazed to learn that what I’ve written has resonated with so many people, some of whom have shared similar experiences.
This morning one of my fans wrote and offered to stand in for me for as long as necessary. While I appreciate Leda’s kind offer, hearing from her brought me up short and made me realize I’m unwilling to give up my forum. So cutlooseblog is back. For right now, there are things I simply won’t be able to discuss. I probably won’t be able to post comments from you regarding those issues, either, and I beg your understanding in that regard.
But there is something I can say. My mother is sitting right here beside me as I write this. We’re in a hotel room several hundred miles away from both our homes, away from her business and from her husband, my father, who is working two jobs—his and hers—to keep their restaurant afloat while she’s here backstopping me—her daughter. Their daughter.
So this post is for parents—for my parents and for all those other parents out there—the ones who stick with their offspring through thick and thin; who don’t turn their backs on their children no matter what; who realize that regardless of how old their kids may be, their children are still their children.
Thanks, Mom and Dad. You’re the greatest.
Posted 11:10
A
.
M
., September 18, 2005 by Babe
By the time she finished writing her post, there were several new e-mails. The third one of those was from her old fan Velma.
Dear Babe,
When I first started reading cutloose, I didn’t even know what a blog was. Now I read several of them. One of the ones I read daily, besides yours, is called socalcopshop. It talks about stuff going on here in the L.A. area that hardly ever makes it into the regular papers. You might want to check out this morning’s post. Do you know this guy? Can you sue him?
V
ELMA
T
IN
L
AGUNA
Even as Ali searched for the Web site, she had an inkling of what she would find there, and she wasn’t disappointed. The moment she saw the headline, her heart sank.
BLACK WIDOW OF ROBERT LANE RIDES AGAIN
Alison Reynolds, already a person of interest in the grisly homicide of her estranged network executive husband, Paul Grayson, is now the target of a new police investigation as police look into the mysterious death of the woman who, had she and he both lived, would have become Paul Grayson’s new mother-in-law. Monique Ragsdale, now deceased, was the mother of April Anne Gaddis, Mr. Grayson’s intended bride, whom he was scheduled to marry in a ceremony at his Robert Lane mansion early yesterday afternoon.
Sources close to the investigation state that the two women may have clashed during a meeting earlier in the day, prior to Ms. Ragsdale’s fatal plunge down the stairway of the house formerly owned by Ms. Reynolds and her husband. Rather than the site of a joyous celebration, the house is now surrounded by crime scene tape as investigators attempt to get to the bottom of what happened.
Mr. Grayson disappeared from a pre-wedding bachelor party on Thursday night. His bound body was found later near the wreckage of a vehicle that had been left on the train tracks west of Palm Springs.
At least one anonymous source claimed that because divorce proceedings between Mr. Grayson and Ms. Reynolds were never finalized, she is allegedly her husband’s sole heir, leaving his pregnant fiancée unprovided for. This was supposedly the basis for the alleged confrontation between Ms. Reynolds and Ms. Ragsdale.
Messy divorce proceedings between Ms. Reynolds and her estranged husband have played out in a very public fashion after she was fired from her position as an evening newscaster by the local affiliate of her husband’s network. For the past six months she has vented her side of the story as an ongoing saga in posts to a feminist-leaning Web blog called cutlooseblog.com.
In that same six-month period, Ms. Reynolds has been questioned as part of four separate homicide investigations. In two of those she has been exonerated and the cases are considered closed. The other two are still under active investigation, one by the LAPD and the other by the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department.
In view of Ms. Reynolds’s mounting legal difficulties, her blog has reportedly gone on hiatus.
Posted 7:55
A
.
M
., LMB
No, it hasn’t,
Ali thought to herself.
Cutloose is definitely back.
Ali scanned back through the post. There were enough journalistic weasel words—“alleged,” “supposed,” “reportedly”—along with the ever-so-useful anonymous sources routine, that the article probably wasn’t actionable.
So, no, Velma, I probably can’t sue this guy.
As for the signature? LMB. There was no additional information about him available, but Ali had a suspicion that he and the guy who had sent her the poison-pen note earlier, Lance-a-lot, were one and the same.
She looked back through her discarded mail. Sure enough, his address was still there. She started to send him a terse note about publishing unfounded speculation, then she changed her mind. Instead, Ali deleted her half-written e-mail and permanently deleted his e-mail address as well. If Lance-a-lot wanted attention, he sure as hell wasn’t going to get it from her.
Ali was disheartened to know, however, that his cutesy pet name for her, Black Widow, was out. Even though the man’s allegations were groundless, she understood that other media outlets would most likely pick up on Lance’s lead and run with it.
Ali was about to turn off the computer to go shower and dress when another e-mail popped up. Ali recognized the address—Andrea Morales.
There were only two words in Andrea’s message:
Jesus Sanchez.
So she was right, this Andrea was that Andrea—the one from the kitchen tamale-making project. But what was this about someone firing Jesus? It made no sense. It was his TLC that kept the grounds of the Robert Lane mansion in pristine order. Why would anyone fire him? Ali sent off yet another immediate reply.
Dear Andrea,
Please believe me that I know nothing about this. Your uncle’s work for us has always been more than satisfactory.
Below you’ll find my relevant contact information.
Give me a call at your earliest convenience so we can discuss this and sort it out. Thank you.
R
EGARDS
,
A
LI
R
EYNOLDS
Ali slammed shut her computer and started into the bathroom. “What’s going on?” Edie asked.
“I’m going to shower and get dressed,” Ali said. “Somebody fired the gardener yesterday, and Jesus’s niece thinks it’s my fault.”
“I’m not surprised,” Edie replied. “You’re as bad as George Bush. It looks like everything is your fault.”
Yes,
Ali thought.
Isn’t that the truth.