My Lost and Found Life (4 page)

“Yeah, so, if you didn't dump her, what happened?” I persisted.

Finally, he looked up and straight into my eyes. “I don't really know what happened. She never seemed to have time for me. She's been awfully busy, or at least that's what she said. I thought maybe she was seeing someone else. Someone at her office.”

“At her office? Why would you think that? Are you sure you're not just making excuses because you're cheating on her?”

He shot me a hostile look. “Sure, I'm seeing someone else now. But I'm not cheating on anyone. Diane and I are still friends. If anyone did any dumping, it was her. Anyway, our relationship just never went anywhere. You were always more important than me.”

I ignored that old, tired complaint. Phil had always been jealous, because we both knew I came first with my mother.

“Why do you think she was seeing someone from her office?”

“She spent so much time there, late nights and weekends, and she was always talking to someone at work by phone. I saw less and less of her, and when I asked what was going on, she never really answered. I asked her a hundred times to go away with me, just the two of us in my camper. I wanted to go to Oregon or Yosemite or even just to Reno. She always claimed she couldn't leave you or she was too busy at work. She always made excuses, although...” His voice trailed off.

“Although what?” I hissed.

He didn't answer me.

“What?” I demanded.

He stared at his hands again. “Although if she were embezzling money, that would explain it. She would have been spending more time at the office, wouldn't she? Trying to cover her tracks?”

“Embezzling! My mother—an embezzler? Jesus, Phil, Diane is not some criminal mastermind. You can't honestly think she's guilty!”

“I don't know, Ashley,” he said slowly. “I would never have thought so, but I always did wonder where she got all the money she spent on you and redoing the house and that Mercedes. The two of you spend a lot of money.”

“We don't spend any more money than anyone else,” I protested.

“Maybe so, but on a single mother's salary? She's a bookkeeper, not a bank president. Most people around here spend
that much because they're pulling down big bucks in high-powered jobs, with two parents working.”

I didn't know what to say. I had never really thought about it. I had no idea what my mother's salary was. All I knew was that when I wanted money, my mother would come up with it. Would my mother steal money to keep me in designer jeans? I wanted to say no, but I was terrified the answer might be yes. I couldn't help but remember my mother sobbing in the rain two nights ago, “It's never enough for you. No matter what I do, it's never enough.”

I opened the front door and grimaced at the sight of the two uniformed men standing there. “You again! Have you found her?”

Strobel gave a negative headshake, but I knew the answer from the expression on his partner's face. Officer Donahoe looked as if he had poured sour milk on his breakfast cereal.

“Why don't you just tell us where she is?” Donahoe snarled. “You don't seem to realize you're in a bad spot. If you're not careful, you could be charged as an accessory. I don't think you'll like doing mother-daughter time in San Quentin.”

His voice sliced through the air with the whine of a weed whacker. Donahoe's obnoxious tone matched his equally obnoxious manner. Three days had elapsed since my mother went missing, and this was the fourth time the cops had stopped by the house. Apparently, Officer Donahoe never tired of trying to browbeat me into telling him my mother's whereabouts.

“I confess, copper. Go ahead, put on the cuffs and throw me in the slammer,” I retorted, holding out my wrists. “The
loot is stashed in the cookie jar, and my mother's at the Four Seasons.”

“This isn't a joke, little lady. You'll start taking this seriously when you find yourself in jail.” Donahoe glared at me and I glared right back.

“Oh, yeah, some joke. My mother is missing; she's probably been kidnapped, but the cops won't lift a finger to find her and you keep hassling me. That's my idea of a really big joke.”

Donahoe snorted, waved what he called a warrant in my face, and pushed past me into the house. Strobel raised his eyebrows and followed his partner inside. The pair of them had arrived to search for evidence or maybe to find out if some of the missing cash was stashed in my mother's underwear drawer, under her bikini panties.

Instead of following them inside, I slumped onto the settee on the porch. I could hear a woodpecker
rat-tatt
ing away from the telephone pole across the street. I felt like going over with a hammer and lending a hand.

I was enduring another gorgeous spring day. It felt as if the weather were mocking me in my misery. The day should have been cold and bitter, with black skies and ominous clouds ready to pour torrential rain down on everyone and everything. I needed pounding hail and savage winds and ear-shattering thunder. I wanted to see wildly destructive tornadoes tearing up the landscape. As it was, all of the storms were raging inside me.

Yesterday, I had even swallowed my pride and asked Gloria if she would lend me the money for Hawaii, just until my mother came back. She exploded into the telephone.

“You can't be serious. Your mother is missing and you want to run off to Hawaii and get a suntan! Why does this not surprise me? Just when I think you couldn't possibly be as narcissistic as I imagine, you demonstrate you really are that shallow.”

I hung up on her. What
was
her problem? She had no idea what hell I was going through. What did Gloria expect me to do? There was nothing to do except wait, and that was the hardest thing I'd ever done.

That night a reporter from the
San Francisco Examiner
had called, asked for Diane Mitchell, then tried to question me when I said she wasn't home. I slammed the receiver down without answering.

Today, page six of the
Examiner
contained a four-paragraph article, with the headline:

Burlingame Woman Sought
in Fraud Investigation

Burlingame, CA—Police have filed fraud and grand theft charges against Diane Mitchell, 42, of Burlingame. Mitchell allegedly embezzled $1.2 million from her employer, Warren Simmons & Co., in Redwood City. Mitchell, a bookkeeper for Warren Simmons for the past nine years, is missing, and authorities fear she may have fled the country.

“She was a trusted employee for years, and we totally relied on her,” said Arthur Warren, chief executive officer of this well-known architectural and engineering firm. “We're all still in shock.”

Burlingame Police say the fraud was uncovered by independent auditors brought into the company in preparation for a merger. They did not disclose what led them to suspect Mitchell of the theft. Two months ago Warren Simmons announced its proposed acquisition by Martinez Engineering, the largest firm of its type in the Bay Area.

Ashley Mitchell, 18, the suspect's daughter, has been questioned, but no charges have been filed. Mitchell had no comment when reached at their Burlingame home.

Those four paragraphs were wreaking havoc in my life. At school, there were two equally distasteful reactions: some people were so-o-o kind and treated me as if they were oh-so-sorry for me, while others just whispered and turned away as if I had a communicable disease.

The school administration fell into the pseudo-sympathetic category. Mr. Rachesky, the iron-jawed principal, took me aside to ask if they could “do anything” for me. I told him I was fine.

Predictably, Mara was one of those that put on a bogus “you poor thing” act. I was lucky enough to avoid running into her all morning. Then, right before dismissal, I heard her singsong voice behind me.

“What are
you
wearing to graduation?” I heard her say to someone. I kept my back toward her and my face averted, but it was no use. She spotted me and danced over.

“Oh, Ashley, how
are
you?” she said in her most sugary-sweet tone. “You must be going through
hell.
You poor thing, I guess this means you won't be going to
Hawaii.
We should all do something, like, take up a collection for bail.”

With my teeth clenched, I said, “Oh, Mara, that's so-o-o sweet. You don't need to worry about me, but I'm really touched because I didn't know you ever thought about anything except what clothes to put on your back.”

I walked away without waiting to see what she would say next.

Scott's attitude was the most hurtful of all. He ignored me—
me,
his girlfriend. When I finally thrust myself into the middle of his little group of poseurs, they all scattered as if there were a fire drill in progress.

“Oh, hi, Ash,” he said casually, looking down at his shoes instead of meeting my eyes.

“Oh, hi, Scott,”
I mocked him in a loud voice. I was angry and ready to rock and roll. “Maybe you'd like to explain why you walked right by me after French class as if you didn't even know me.”

“Hey, don't go postal on me,” he protested, finally looking up. “I didn't see you.”

“Like hell you didn't. I know you saw that article in the newspaper. I know everyone has read it, and anyone who didn't read it has heard about it by now.”

“Yeah, that was weird. I can't believe your mom would...” He let it trail off.

“I don't believe it. And I can't believe all my friends, even my own boyfriend, would start acting as if I'm a criminal.”

“Come on, Ash, I don't think you're a criminal,” he said, rocking back and forth uncomfortably. “It's just that, well, you know my old man. He's being a real prick. He gave me his ‘I'm a big-shot partner with a distinguished law firm' speech and said he can't afford to have anyone in his family mixed up with an embezzler and the police and all that. He raised holy hell last night and told me to stay away from you, or else he'll take my Jeep away.”

“Your Jeep. Great, I rank right up there, don't I? Right below that piece of metal. Thanks for nothing.”

“This is just for a few days. Your mom will show up and fix everything. We just have to cool it in public until we get to Hawaii.”

“I don't want a boyfriend who pretends he doesn't know me in public. And it looks like I'm not going to Hawaii. Right now, I don't have any money to pay the balance due. Anyway, the cops are all over me. Yesterday, they told me not to leave town, just in case I was thinking of taking off for Argentina with a suitcase full of cash.”

“Not go to Hawaii?” Scott was truly shocked. “We've been looking forward to this all year. The cops can't do that. You need a lawyer. We can't let them do this.”

“And where would I get the money for a lawyer?” I scowled. “Earth to Scott! I already told you I don't have the money for Hawaii. Lawyers aren't free either.”

“I'd loan you some cash for Hawaii, but I'm busted. I need to tap my old man before liftoff or the whole trip will be a real drag.”

I stared at him in disgust. I had just told him I was being
harassed by the cops, but all Scott could think about was Hawaii and how to get spending money from his tight-ass father. I was lost—completely adrift, with no money and no one to help me. I wanted someone's arms around me, someone who would hold me tight and murmur, “It'll be all right, baby.” Truthfully, I wanted my mother, but a little TLC from Scott would have helped.

“My hero,” I answered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I wasn't asking for money, but I expected more than this from you. I hope you and your Jeep are very happy together.”

I stalked off, minus one boyfriend.

• • •

Graduation day was a complete fiasco. The only reason I showed up for the ceremony at all was to prevent my former friends and their respectable, law-abiding parents from whispering that I was too ashamed to appear. Let them dare to judge or pity me. I would hold my head high and spit in their eyes. That was the only thing my mother had ever insisted on—that I hold my head up, no matter what.

So I faced down all of them on graduation day. The hardest part was enduring the chilly reception when my name was called and I walked to the podium. Unlike Scott and others in the popular crowd, my march across the stage was not heralded by any outburst of enthusiastic applause, cheers, or congratulatory war whoops from friends and relatives. For me there was only silence, followed by embarrassed, tepid applause. My heart was pounding and my face was hot with humiliation, but I maintained my icy control and survived the ceremony.

After all the diplomas had been handed out and all the speeches given, everyone congregated on the lawn in front of the school. Each new graduate, wearing a white cap and gown and a bright smile, posed for pictures surrounded by a joyous crowd of relatives and friends. They all had mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents. Only I was alone. No one came over to hug me and say “I'm so proud of you.” I wanted my mother so badly I ached. How could she do this to me?

Ironically, I'd never minded being an only child. Now, standing on that lawn, I'd have given anything to have a sister or brother to cheer me on.

I was making my way through the crowd when Nicole came up behind me and grabbed my arm. “Ashley. Come with us. We're going to lunch at the Portabella Bistro to celebrate.”

I hesitated. “We?”

“Oh, you know—my mother, my brothers, and my grandmother,” she said, making a face. “Then tonight I have to go to dinner with my dad and
that woman.
”

Now that her parents were divorced, poor Nic had to play the do-everything-twice game.

I stood there, jiggling my car keys in my hand. Seeing my hesitation, she pleaded, “Please, it'll be fun.”