Authors: Sue Ann Jaffarian
AWASH IN AFTERGLOW you could fry an egg on, I drove down Pacific Coast Highway. The ocean shimmered in the sun to my right. I was singing along with the radio, off-key and loud, and didn't give a rat's ass who heard me. It was mid-morning, too late for sunrise, too early for the usual beachgoer. A few mellow folks were lounging on the sand already, but they'd be gone by the time the throngs of families and teenagers descended to worship cancer causing rays. I like the beach in the morning, finding it peaceful and fresh. Usually, it was the only time I went. Sometimes I would go in the evening to sit beside a fire ring with friends. But the midday heat and burning sun weren't kind to my fair freckled skin, and had become a real enemy as the years went by.
A new song started and I picked it right up, even though I didn't know most of the words.
Greg had promised that the lovemaking would be fine if I allowed him to lead me through it. And it had been fine, very fine indeed.
He had been a wonderful guide and lover. Worried about hurting him with my weight, at first I had been reluctant to get on top as he instructed. But my growing lust for him overrode my hesitations and, in the end, after a roaring climax, I had rolled off him reborn. In truth, it was the best sex I had ever had.
We had fallen asleep in each other's arms around four and woke up together just before eight. After an encore performance, we reluctantly got up. Greg had to meet Frye, and I wanted to make contact with Clarice. After showers and a quick breakfast, we went our separate ways, but not before promising to meet back at his house tonight around six. I couldn't wait.
It was during breakfast that I broke down and told him of my plan to visit Hollowell's wife. He wasn't pleased. No big surprise there. But he was smart enough to know he couldn't talk me out of it. I also made him promise not to tell Frye. But, as with my trip to Santa Paula, he made me agree to call him at a certain time and check in. If I missed the call, I knew he'd be on Frye like butter on popcorn.
Humph. A girl gets a little bump on the head and everyone panics.
Cautiously, I touched the place where the assailant had left his calling card. The bump was raw and painful. Washing and drying my hair this morning had been tricky. In my purse was a bottle of pain relievers Greg had let me pinch from his medicine cabinet. My injury reminded me to stop in at Hoag Hospital and check on Iris.
Poor Iris, in the end the beams did get her, just not in the way she expected. Seeing the security company truck parked in front of Sophie's, Iris must have hurried over to relate her woes, surprising the bogus technician. That was Frye's theory, and it sounded on target to me.
Right after breakfast, while Greg showered, I'd fired up his computer and checked out Dakota Industries Corp. Its registered agent wasn't Glenn Thomas as I had expected, but a man named Lowell Jensen. But under Dakota Industries, Glenn Thomas was listed as president and chief financial officer.
Excited with possibilities, I switched to the
Orange County Register's
site and found their archives. I typed in Glenn Thomas. Up popped a story about the Ortiz accident. That's where I'd heard Thomas' name; he was the drunk who'd killed Danny Ortiz.
With several clicks of the computer mouse, I searched for the web site for Hollowell-Johnson Investment Company. I should have tried this route before, but it hadn't occurred to me. Not all companies have web sites, but most did. Hollowell was a happening kind of guy. I would have been surprised to find his company behind the times.
In no time I was scanning the Hollowell-Johnson home page. It was a snazzy yet conservative site, giving visitors the idea that the company was both modern and trustworthy. I wasn't interested in its services, but the subsidiaries, the other companies it owned and operated. I found a link entitled The HJ Investments Family. Clicking on it gave me a nicely presented list of businesses under the Hollowell-Johnson umbrella. Sure enough, Dakota Industries was one of them.
I printed out hard copies of the research and tucked them into my tote.
Switching gears, I had quickly searched Sophie's web site using the password Greg supplied. As I suspected, upon closer review of the photos, I could see that there wasn't one man as I had first thought, but a few different ones, each with his face concealed. From the dates imprinted at the bottom of these photos, I could also tell they were old pictures, all taken more than a year ago, which supported what Greg had told me about Sophie getting out of the closing business.
I still didn't think any of these men had anything to do with Sophie's death. I could be wrong, but for now I was willing to go in another direction. Besides, the police were going to investigate this possibility. I wanted to trample my own ground.
Chapter Twenty-Four
STILL SINGING MY heart out, I stopped at my place for a quick change of clothes. Then I hit the road for Corona del Mar.
I parked at the curb directly in front of Hollowell's home and got out. The house looked quiet. The walkway leading from the street up a small rise to the front door was bisected by a river of circular driveway, like a moat. I crossed it, stepped up to the door, and rang the bell.
I wasn't sure what I was going to say to Clarice Hollowell. Nothing particularly clever came to mind, so I thought I'd start by asking a few questions and see where it got me. That is, if she was home. And if she would deign to speak with me.
The front door had a stained glass window set into the middle and a large picture window on the wall to its left. I tried peeking into both. Getting no answer, I rang the bell again. Still nothing.
To the right of the home, a straight stretch of driveway veered off from the circular drive. I followed it past a large, open, metal gate. The driveway ended at an unattached garage large enough for three cars. It sat behind the house, off to the right. The area directly behind the house was comprised mostly of a huge redwood deck surrounded by a waist-high open fence with steps leading down into a garden. The area held an assortment of tables with umbrellas, chairs, and lounges. Both the deck and garden were abundant with flowers, shrubs, and exotic greenery. In one corner of the deck was a man-made river rock waterfall cascading into a spa. The whole area looked like a slice of paradise.
The back looked as deserted as the house. I was about to turn away when I realized something was out of place. I stood still and waited, my nose tilted up.
A lifetime non-smoker can pick up a whiff of cigarette smoke from a hundred yards away, much like a shark smelling a drop of blood in the ocean. And there was no doubt about it—I smelled smoke.
Venturing past the driveway boundary and into the back, I tiptoed closer to the deck. It was only a few steps up from the ground. Surveying the tables, I finally found the burning butt. It was sitting in an ashtray at the table nearest me, a table so close to the fence I'd almost missed it. Light gray wisps spiraled up into the still air.
"Either go away or say something."
The voice startled me. Placing a hand over my heart, I felt it thumping from the jolt. I stepped closer to the sound and discovered a body sprawled in a lounge chair next to the table supporting the cigarette. The figure was dressed in white gauzy material and wore a straw hat pulled down low on her face.
"So, which is it to be?" the voice demanded.
"Mrs. Hollowell?" I asked, stepping up the stairs to stand on the deck itself.
"If you're selling something, go away and save us both some time." The voice was cultured, the tone superior.
"Mrs. Hollowell, I need to speak with you."
A bony hand with French manicured nails and a diamond the size of a bonbon reached out for the cigarette and drew it close under the hat. I was near enough to hear a deep inhale, then an exhale, followed by smoke signals puffing out from under the brim. While I waited to be granted an audience, I took note of a serving tray on the table. On the tray were a pitcher and a glass. It was an empty martini glass with two green olives stranded at the bottom. The pitcher was about a quarter-full.
The hand not holding the cigarette pushed the hat back from the woman's face. She looked me over from head to toe and back to the top without a word, then took another deep drag of smoke.
After exhaling, she asked, "You one of my husband's fat sluts?"
I could see that this was going to be a fun ride, right up there with getting smacked on the head with an heavy object.
"Guilty to the fat part, not guilty to being a slut, your husband's or anyone else's."
A very small smile crept across her face. "Good answer."
She sat up straighter in the lounge chair and swept her free hand toward an empty seat next to the table. I accepted the gesture and sat down.
"Would you like a drink?" She stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the tall glass pitcher, twirling its glass stirring rod gently. "I make a mean martini."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Hollowell."
Greg and I had made pancakes and sausage for breakfast. I had a hard time imagining gin mixing well with maple syrup.
She shrugged and poured herself a fresh glass. "As they say, more for me."
She sipped the drink as if in prayer, making me wonder how often she visited the altar.
"So, now, just who are you?" she asked.
"My name is Odelia Grey."
Holding her glass with both hands, she sipped again, then screwed up her face a bit. The straw hat sat back on her head enough for me to see her entire face. At first glance, I put her around my age. But a closer look made me increase my estimate. Her facial skin was pulled tight, her features pointed with a hint of being stretched. Chemically enhanced black hair framed her narrow face in a feathery short cut that looked fresh. Her makeup was flawless. The whole look said spoiled, idle, and rich...very rich.
"Odelia," she said, repeating my first name. "Unusual name, isn't it?"
"I was named after a great aunt I never met," I told her.
"Odelia." She rolled it around in her mouth like one of her martini olives. "I think I like it."
"Glad to hear it," I mumbled, thinking to myself that she was half drunk and might be useless to me.
"But I must not know you," she said, looking at me over her drink. "I think I would have remembered your name."
"No, Mrs. Hollowell, you don't know me. But I need to ask you some questions. It's important to me."
"And how is it important to me?"
I hesitated, then jumped in with both feet. "It's important because it involves your present husband, your dead husband, and your son, Jonathan."
Well, that did it. Cocktail banter was over. She put down her glass so sharply, I was surprised the slender stem didn't snap. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. "Who the hell are you?" she asked in a stern voice.
"I'm a friend of Sophie London's," I replied.
"So, you're not a fat slut," she said, giving a wicked laugh. "Just the fat friend of a fat slut. Same thing."
With John Hollowell, you had to dance around the questions you wanted to ask, keeping time with his personal sheet music, the whole activity frustrating, yet civil. Questioning Clarice Hollowell would be different, more like professional wrestling with headlocks and body slams. More to my personal liking, if I didn't knock her block off first.
"Did your husband kill Sophie, Mrs. Hollowell?"
"You don't mince words, Odelia. I like that." She picked up her drink and settled back in the chaise. "I heard she was dead, of course. It was on the news. Also heard it was suicide."
"I don't believe it," I said with conviction. "And I think John Hollowell had something to do with it."
"You're a smart woman to connect the two, Odelia. But you really should lose some weight. Fat makes people look dumb, don't you know that? Or is that your cover?"
I was sitting across from a woman so thin she could have been taken for a concentration camp inmate. In addition, she smoked like a chimney and swilled martinis by the pitcher. It took a lot for me not to point out her flaws in return. But I kept silent, reining in my indignation. Clarice Hollowell was pushing buttons, looking for the one that would set me off. I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.
"So John did have something to do with it," I said, keeping my mind on the real business at hand.
"John? My, my, so you do know my husband?" She looked me over again. "Yes, he would like you. You're attractive, well dressed, sharp, and seemingly educated. You close any deals for him yet?"
I smoothed my pink silk summer dress down over my legs, glad I had dashed home to change. I had thought it best not to face a possible society vulture dressed in jeans and a camp shirt, and had made the right decision.
"I have met your husband, yes, but there's no relationship."
She looked at my hands and arms, and so did I, wondering what she was searching for.
"You're probably telling the truth," she said. "You're not wearing the bracelet."
"The bracelet?"
"Yes, John gives all his fat sluts distinctive bracelets with a single round charm. Like a brand, but much nicer, don't you think? Usually the bracelets are in silver, but the really topnotch whores get them in gold." She laughed. "I know Sophie had a gold one." Clarice looked at me, studying me closely. "He asked you, though," she said with a leer, "didn't he? And I bet he offered you gold."
"Yes, Mrs. Hollowell, he did. But I'm not interested. My only concern is finding out what happened to Sophie."
"I love it!" She threw her head back and laughed. It was a throaty laugh that sounded too deep for her small body. "He's trying to get into your drawers and you're trying to nail his ass for murder. It'd serve him right if you succeeded."
"Did he murder Sophie?"
She shook her head. "We hosted a big brunch that day for the executives of John's company and their wives. He was here all morning and afternoon, I'm sorry to say."
"Was Glenn Thomas at the brunch?"
The mention of that name brought her up short. She hesitated before speaking. "Yes, of course. He runs one of the subsidiaries."
"Did you know Mr. Thomas is an alcoholic?"
"Everyone knows that. So sad about that boy he killed, though." Her voice was lowered, tinged with true sadness, as she spoke.
"He also worked for your first husband, for Kenneth Woodall, didn't he?"
"Mmmmm, you're not the police, and you don't look like a private investigator." The sadness was gone and she was back in character. "Yet you've done some good solid homework. Just what do you do, Odelia? You an attorney?"
"Paralegal. Corporate paralegal actually," I told her.
"Oh, didn't go the whole way? Couldn't make the grade of law school, huh?"
"No, Mrs. Hollowell, I chose to be a paralegal. Less bullshit."
I kept my eyes focused on hers. For a brief moment our wills locked, then she looked away.
"Did Glenn Thomas kill Kenneth Woodall?" I asked. "Was he the hit and run driver?"
"Yes," she admitted, "but if asked by anyone else, I'll deny it."
"He was your husband, Mrs. Hollowell. Why would you protect Glenn Thomas?"
"Because I hated Kenneth Woodall." Her words cut the still air like razors. "He was a big time bastard, to both me and our daughter. Miserly and abusive. When John..."
She stopped, clearly shocked she'd said so much. She was giving up a whole lot more information than I had expected, but I wasn't complaining. I chalked it up to the booze.
"John?" I thought a moment about her slip. "That's right. You married John Hollowell within a year of Woodall's death. So maybe you and John Hollowell got Glenn Thomas to kill him, make it seem like an accident."
She stared at me, her dark eyes flinty, the skin around them taut, like it would snap.
"Why should I tell you anything?" she asked.
I took a deep breath and held it. Upon blowing it out, I lit into her, hardly stopping for air.
"Because, besides Sophie, a young man, an innocent young man, was killed. And last night Sophie's neighbor was almost bludgeoned to death. She's in a coma as we speak. And even I was attacked, almost knocked unconscious by the same assailant. Somehow these recent events are tied to those past deaths. And I'm going to find out how. Believe me, I won't rest until I do. So you can talk to me now, or you can talk to me through bars, because there is no statute of limitations on murder," I said, pointing a finger at her. "And you, lady, are an accessory to at least one."
She looked at me without expression. I looked back in the same manner, hoping she wouldn't laugh at my attempt to intimidate. Truthfully, I wanted to tuck my tail between my legs and run; to change my name and move to another state so the Hollowells and their associates could never find me.
"Why would Glenn Thomas help you and John get rid of Kenneth Woodall?" I asked, plowing on, willing my butt to stay put.
An expression scurried across her face, letting me know she'd made a decision. I waited to see which way she would go.
"Because Glenn is my brother," she said slowly, "and he hated Kenneth Woodall as much as I did."
She drained her glass and returned it to the table, then lit up another cigarette. I waited. After a long inhale and deep exhale, she continued.
"Kenneth worked for my father. He was a nobody from nowhere, but he worked hard and helped my father and brother build the company. We thought of him as family. Everyone was thrilled when I married him." She took another long drag. "About the time Jackie, that's my daughter, was born, my father died. Within months, Kenneth had taken control of the company. Turned out, he'd been planning it for years, just waiting for the right time to make his move. He had set up his own company and eventually absorbed into it everything my father had built. My brother was left with nothing but a title, no real authority. I think Kenneth kept him around just to trot him out to the old customers, show them that the Thomas family still had an active part in the business."
She paused to take a puff before continuing. "Glenn's a very shy, quiet man. He never married, was given to drinking. I think he stuck it out just to keep an eye on me."
"So who thought up the plan?" I asked. "My guess is John Hollowell."
She nodded. "John was working at Woodall Development. We met at a company function. Old story really. He was handsome and charming. I was lonely and neglected, not to mention outraged. We started an affair. Before I knew it, we had planned Kenneth's death and carried it out."
She poured herself another drink. "Sure you don't want one?"
I shook my head.
"Funny," she continued. "That old saying—what goes around, comes around—it's true. Kenneth married me to gain control of my father's company. John killed him and married me to gain Kenneth's company." She gave a short laugh. "Guess that doesn't say much about my taste in men, does it?"
"And what do you think is going to come back around to bite you on your butt, Mrs. Hollowell?"
She let out an insane sounding hoot. "Oh, it already has bitten me, Odelia. I got my comeuppance almost eighteen years ago and have been living in hell since."
"Your son?"