Knowing Vera (Romantic Suspense, Family Drama) (Chance for Love) (2 page)

The next day is bright and sunny, a contrast to my crappy mood. I spread the clippings on my bed, all dated March 1991.

“Killer sought for Lillian Spencer’s Murder.”

“Napa Murder Victim Mourned.”

One article describes Mrs. Spencer as an activist for labor and immigration issues, working to improve living conditions for migrant workers. A picture shows her volunteering at a medical clinic. She was pretty, baby-faced, with long, curly blond hair and pert bow-shaped lips. I can see Zach in her, a masculine rendition with crystal blue eyes and a straight, no-nonsense nose over a cleft chin.

Another article is entitled “Spencer Murderer Jumps Golden Gate Bridge.” A black and white photo of my father stares into the camera. The article says he was the only suspect because the police found his blood at the crime scene. Since they never recovered his body, they ran a paternity test on the blood and matched it to me.

When I met Zach last spring, I had no idea we shared such a lurid past. Spencer is a common name and he hailed from Australia. He never mentioned living in the Bay Area, and it wasn’t until I met his father after the accident that I put it together. That, along with the postcard from Australia telling me to find her murderer. Signed, Lillian Spencer, a woman dead more than twenty years.

My cell phone buzzes. It’s Owen Williams, a lawyer friend who dabbles in private investigation.

“How was last night?” He asks in a casual voice. “Did you break up with Zach?”

“Sort of. I couldn’t tell him the real reason, so I said I’m leaving the country.”

He snickers. “You know what he’s thinking, don’t you?”

“Of course I told him it wasn’t the leg.” I stuff the articles back in the folder. “Did you talk to the retired detective? Ask him if there were other suspects?”

“Sure, sure, change the subject,” Owen says. “I’ve seen the way Zach looks at you. He cares about you more than you think.”

I twirl the split ends of my hair. “It’ll never work. Unless my father’s not guilty.”

“You might have something there,” Owen says. “I talked to Detective Ross at the nursing home, and he remembers something strange.”

My ears perk, and I hop off the bed. “Tell me.”

“They didn’t find your father’s blood in the vicinity of the victim. It only started dripping near the potting table a short distance away.”

“Is this important?”

“Don’t know. You had Zach’s mother’s blood under your fingernails and smeared on your dress, but only a drop of your father’s blood on the hem of your dress.”

I pull in a noisy breath. “What does that mean?”

“Ross thinks your father told you to hold the knife and you accidentally cut him. Of course the knife disappeared along with your father.”

“I don’t remember anything.” A tight pain expands from between my eyes. “Didn’t see anything, nothing.”

“You were there, according to the police report. They say you used to visit the greenhouse while your father worked in the winery. Sure you don’t remember?”

An image of a child’s red ball with white stars beckons. I cover my eyes and shake my head. “There was a ball and a boy.”

“That would be Zach. Witnesses say you played with him while his mother tended to her prize-winning orchids. Hide-and-seek, tag, the usual children’s games.”

“Zach.” My breath escapes in a single puff. I wonder if he remembers me. He would have been only five. Too young. “So, what’s the detective’s theory?”

I hear sounds of papers shuffling. Owen clears his throat. “The angle of the cut on the victim suggests the killer was left-handed, but the trail of blood your father left was on the right side of the aisle. Might not mean anything, but Ross thought it strange.”

“That’s true.” I grab at the point. “If my father’s right-handed, he’s innocent.”

“Not so fast,” Owen says. “Most people are right-handed.”

“But, as you say, the killer was left-handed.” I shove the folder under my bed. “He could have killed Mrs. Spencer, fought my father and cut my father’s hand, leaving him looking guilty.”

“Maybe,” Owen concedes. “Ross said he’s had lots of time to think about this one. It always puzzled him why your father would bring you to the scene of a murder if he had planned it.”

The sound of the garage door opening alerts me. “I gotta go. My mom’s home. I’ll ask her about my father, although she doesn’t like talking about him. Says to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Maybe you should,” Owen says. “Especially if they turn around and bite you.”

“Vera? Who let the bunny out?” My mother barges into my room. She’s dressed in a business suit, but looks miserable, sneezing and rubbing her eyes.

“I think you’re coming down with something.” I place my hand on her forehead. “How was the interview?”

“Okay.” She waves me away and mutters, “I’m probably allergic to the rabbit.”

It belongs to Emily, my seven-year-old niece, who visits on the weekends.

“You probably have the flu that’s going around.”

She sits on my bed and removes her pumps. “Where’s Emily?”

“In her room, playing. I wanted to ask you something.”

Mama narrows her eyes. “You in trouble? You seem nervous.”

“Me? Not at all. I was thinking about Papa. Was he right-handed or left?”

“Right-handed, why?” She blows her nose. “My feet are sore. Ay-ah!”

“Do you have any writing samples? Any notes or cards?”

“
M’iha
, he died over twenty years ago. Why would I have notes?”

Next time she’s out, I’ll search the boxes in the garage. The way she watches soap operas, I’ll bet she has a pile of love letters stashed away somewhere.

She goes toward the bathroom. “You have a package on the kitchen table.”

“Thanks. I’ll make you some chicken soup.” I walk down the hall, almost tripping over Emily’s rabbit. He waddle-hops in that floppy way lop-eared bunnies move. I lunge for him, but he’s too fast for me.

“Emily! Put Lindor back in his cage.”

“Okay. One more level,” she yells from behind her door, no doubt engaged in a vicious video game battle.

“Lola’s home and she wants a hug.” I walk to the kitchen and sort through the mail lying on the counter.

A bubble-wrapped envelope lies on top of the bills and junk mail. I don’t remember ordering anything. There’s no return address, but the postmark indicates it’s local. There’s something solid and hard inside.
Strange. Maybe it’s a gift from the new guy at work who likes me.

I walk back to my room and open it, finding a basic cell phone, probably prepaid. The display shows one received text message.

“Find the real killer.”

What the?
I look through the envelope, but it’s empty. Could this be related to the postcards?

“Who are you?” I text back, my heart hyper from the adrenaline flooding my bloodstream.

Emily slides by the door, chasing the bunny. I grab ahold of her. “Lola says she might be allergic to Lindor. Can you keep him in the cage and sweep up?”

“Sure.” She stands on her tippy toes and kisses me. “I love you, Tia.”

“I love you too, sweet cheeks.” I ruffle her hair. I raised her from when she was a baby. She’s my brother Rod’s illegitimate daughter, but when he died, her legal father took her back. In my heart she’s mine, and I’m glad her father let’s her visit.

We chase the bunny and corner him under the kitchen table. Emily lures Lindor back into the cage with a carrot while I sweep up the droppings.

She tugs at my arm. “I have a book report for school, can you read to me?”

“Let me get the chicken soup started and we’ll pick a book.”

I set the ingredients on the cutting board and boil water. When I turn around, Emily’s playing with the mystery phone.

“Look, you have a message.”

“Hey, don’t touch that.” I stop chopping the onions. “Honey punch, can you go to the pantry and get the noodles?”

She leaves the phone on the table, and I scoop it up. The text message reads, “I’m your father and I need you to clear my name.”

Who’s contacting me? I don’t believe in ghosts or messages from beyond the grave.

My hands shake as I fish the envelope out of the wastebasket. The back-slanted printing is heavy-handed, the pen gouging the letters. It looks like my brother Rey Jr.’s writing, but he’s been dead more than a year. A chill sweeps over me.

He was left-handed.

Emily returns with the Chinese noodles. Once everything is simmering, I take
The Secret Garden
off my bookcase and cuddle up with her on the couch.

My mother joins us, hugging Emily from the other side—just the three of us. Why can’t our family be like other Filipino families? They have so many relatives they can’t even get a group picture in one room.

Emily and I take turns reading until the soup is done. After eating, she goes to her room to play video games while Mama sits in front of the television and opens her laptop. I load the dishwasher and retire to my room to call Owen. He answers on the first ring.

“Is it my voice or advice you’re missing?” He chuckles flirtatiously. Owen is harmless, a chubby boy-next-door type of guy. He always hits on his female clients, but he doesn’t mean it. It’s his way of making them feel desired while they fork over the retainer fees.

“I just received a cell phone in the mail.” My breath accelerates. “Someone’s texting me and claiming to be my father.”

“Maybe it’s the same person who sent the postcard.”

“Can’t be. The postmark for the phone is San Francisco and the postcard came from Australia. What do you think it means?”

“Let’s retrace everything we know. A month ago, you received a postcard from Australia, correct?”

“Yes, and it said, ‘Find my murderer. Lillian Spencer.’ I threw it away.”

“Then you get an email asking you to reopen the investigation into her murder, and a phone call from a private number with a woman’s voice claiming she knows who the real killer is.”

My breathing is uneven and I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron. “What do you think they want?”

“This all started happening a little over a month ago, right?”

“Yes, right after Thanksgiving.” Darn it. I wish I hadn’t thrown away the postcard or deleted the email.

“Anyone you met around that time? Events? Even little inconsequential things? I want you to make a timeline. Put down everything you can think of in your life, your mother’s, your niece’s, friends, family, even at work.”

I sigh and palm my aching eyes. “There’s this new doctor at work who’s been hitting on me. My uncle Louie was diagnosed with cancer. Emily’s baby brother was born. I don’t know, it’s all so random.”

“How about Zach? Didn’t he lose his leg around that time?”

“No, it’s been almost three months.” I draw my curtains and lie on my bed.

“Close enough. The victim was his mother. You didn’t know this until the card came from Australia?”

“True, but he couldn’t have sent it since he was here. Him and his father.”

Owen hums noncommittally. “I’m a master strategist. If we look at the effect, we can find the cause.”

He’s smart; that I’ll grant him. It’s why I hired him, even though his ego’s as large as his IQ.

“I don’t follow,” I say lamely to get him to clarify.

He’s only too happy to take the bait, chuckling in that dull monotonous undertone of his as if he has all the cards. “You’ve decided to stop seeing Zach, and you’ve asked the sheriff’s office to reopen the investigation into a case considered closed.”

“Yes, and?”

“Who benefits?” Owen states rhetorically. “The real killer, if it’s not your father, wouldn’t want the police looking into the case. So the other explanation is someone wants you to break away from Zach. Which leads me to believe Zach cares about you a heck of a lot more than you and I think, and this threatens the unknown female, or male.”

“Owen, you’re a hopeless romantic,” I say even though his words make me smile.

“Let’s do an experiment. Reverse the effect and see what happens. I say you take Zach back.”

I shake my head and tap my fingers on the table. “Or I stop looking at the case. No more visits to the sheriff’s office or sending you to talk to the investigator. In fact, I’ll cancel that appointment with my former child psychologist.”

His snicker borders on insulting. “Knowing you, it’ll be easier to take Zach back.”

“How can I, when we didn’t have a real relationship?” I sit up on the bed, my heartbeat thumping at the lie.

“Exactomundo, so carry on like usual and see what prairie dogs pop out of the hole.”

I keep my appointment with Dr. Apodaca.

Owen may be a master chess strategist, but he fails the scientific method: keep all variables constant and change only one. Having Zach out of the picture means I can continue my investigation.

After the morning rush hour has subsided, I arrive at the psychologist’s office and parallel-park in front of a pre-World War II clapboard house.

Dr. Apodaca’s sign is faded, and paint peels from the eaves. Lace curtains, yellowed with age, flutter from the open sash window. The same jingle-bell wreath hangs on the door and alerts the receptionist when I step in.

“Come in, Miss Vera,” she wheezes, her chest heaving as she presses a button on the intercom and lets the doctor know my presence. She leads me past the waiting room filled with toys and books. “Dr. Apodaca doesn’t see many patients nowadays, but she remembers you fondly.”

I cough from the dust in the hallway. Stalks of dried flowers droop over ceramic vases made with childish hands, and paper dolls line the walls. Craft therapy.

I squint to see if any of mine are there, but it’s hard to tell after so many years.

Dr. Apodaca sits on a small chair in front of a child’s play table. Her spider web skin crinkles with a cheery smile, and her straight hair is mostly white. She knocks down a bead maze when she stands to greet me. I bend to pick it up, but she tips my chin toward her and tickles my cheek.

“Miss Vera, you’re all grown up and so pretty. I love your songs and subscribe to your YouTube channel.”

I’m a nurse by profession but, like every other aspiring singer, I’d hoped one of my videos would get me discovered, although I haven’t maintained my web page for a while.

Pulling out a miniature chair, I sit next to her. I’m barely taller than she is, my five feet even to her four feet ten. We’re both Filipina, and she was the one who encouraged me to sing in Tagalog, the Filipino language, when I was mute the first year after my father’s death.

Dr. Apodaca pulls my patient card out of a folder and glances at it. “You were such a cutie, very smart and sweet. I know you’re not here to chit-chat, so what can I do for you?”

I stack and twist Duplo people onto the blocks. I appreciate that she lets me take the lead, so I launch to the heart of the matter. “I don’t believe my father was the murderer. I need your help remembering what happened.”

The doctor tilts her head and looks at me in that puzzled, concerned manner, her gaze flitting from my eyes to my hands. “No child wishes to believe that about a parent.”

“There’s a good chance he didn’t do it.” My heart pounds at the possibility.

“How so?” She loops beads through the wires of the maze as if this were last month’s news.

“The detective on the case says the murderer was left-handed, and my father wasn’t.”

She pinches a bead, her hand freezing in midair. “Then why were the police so sure it was him?”

“Someone framed him. I must have seen who, but I can’t remember.”

“You were severely traumatized.” The doctor’s eyes are beady behind her large framed glasses. “The case was closed, and you’ve made such a wonderful recovery. Why are you digging into this now?”

Her lack of concern pisses me off. I clench my fists and swallow hard. What happened to her innate curiosity and wanting to find the facts? Does she know I used to look forward to my weekly visits? Felt safe with her, as if I could tell her anything?

“I want to know.” I control my voice, but it cracks on the last word. “I broke off a relationship with a man, Lillian Spencer’s son.”

“Interesting. When did you meet him?”

I wave my hand. “Spring of last year, but I didn’t know he was related to her.”

“Ah, I see.” The doctor’s eyes narrow. “Was he upset about your father?”

“He hasn’t connected the dots yet. He was only five when it happened, and this was before everything went on the internet.” My words tumble out, as if saying it will make it true, that Zach had never done an internet search, nor would he ever.

“Do you care about him?” Dr. Apodaca touches my hand.

There she goes, forcing me to face my feelings. I squirm in the narrow chair and chew on my lower lip. “I don’t want him to hate me.”

“If this man is really important, he deserves the truth.”

“He’s been through so much already. He recently lost his leg and is learning to walk with a prosthesis.” I slip from her leathery grasp. “I don’t want to cause him more pain. Is there anything in your notes that might help me remember?”

She pushes herself from the small chair. Slowly, mumbling about her arthritis, she hobbles to her dented metal file cabinet. The drawers creak open with a clank, and she removes a hanging file.

She gestures to the traditional couch, a mustard-yellow vinyl monstrosity. I perch on the edge, unwilling to lie down and let her have control.

She hands me a spiral bound notebook and I flip it open. Her backward slanted handwriting marches across the page.
Dissociative amnesia: subject denies seeing anything despite the presence of blood on her clothing.

My throat tightens and I swallow. The bald clinical language makes me think it all happened to someone else.

“Did I ever tell you who killed the woman?”

“No, you didn’t talk at all. Whenever we asked if you saw anything, you’d squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head so hard your hair would cover your face. Here, take a look at some of the pictures you drew.” She pulls yellowed pictures from the file. One is of a dead blonde with a red slash on her neck. Another picture shows a little girl hugging a little boy, both of their eyes closed like slits.

My heart pounds at the stick figure that was my visualization of Zach. “Do you think he saw?”

“I don’t know. His family moved immediately after the funeral.” Dr. Apodaca stares across the room, her lips twitching. “Do you remember the bridge?”

Chills snake down my spine. “The Golden Gate Bridge. I go there often and look into the water, as if the answers were there.”

The doctor flips the drawings around. “Ah yes, here’s a picture of you and your father looking over the bridge. How do you feel about him?”

“He loved me best. Said I was his special girl. Whenever he did anything like fixing the car, or the plumbing, or cleaning the yard, he’d take me with him so he could hear me talk. I’d hold the tools and follow him around jabbering about my friends. He always listened to me patiently.” I try picturing him. Both of my brothers resembled him in his youth.

“You missed him so much you pushed your mother away.”

The back of my eyes ache, and my throat tightens. “I love my mother. But she blamed me.”

“Oh, honey.” Dr. Apodaca puts her bony arm around my shoulder. “I can assure you she didn’t. Have you asked her?”

“No, she shuts off at the mention of my father. If she’s upset, she’ll retire to her room and not speak to me for days.” A tear threads down my face. “She loved my brothers best, but they’re dead, too. My family’s cursed. What did we do?”

“These things happen, not because anyone did anything.” The doctor wipes a few strands of my hair from my face and hands me a tissue. She’s the closest thing I have to a grandma. I visited her for years, even after I no longer needed therapy.

I dab my eyes. “Did my mother ever tell you about the murder?”

“No, she said she knew nothing. I don’t want to encourage you, but to find Mrs. Spencer’s killer, you need to know more about her. What was the killer’s motive? And how did your father get involved?”

I have a theory prepared. “He might have seen who did it, or maybe he found the body. Then he got blood on himself and me and realized how bad it looked. Rather than drag our family through the trial and rot in jail the rest of his life …” I shudder at the thought. “Maybe this is his way of being with me in spirit. He can hear me when I sing the songs he taught me.”

“You still sing to him?” The doctor looks at me sideways.

“Yes, every night before going to sleep. I tell him about my friends like before, and then I sing lullabies until I fall asleep.” It’s why I’ve never spent the night with any of my boyfriends.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Apodaca says, “Have you ever gotten close to anyone? This man you’re breaking up with?”

“No. We partied together, at least before his injury, but I’m not in love with him or anything.”

“Why do you think that’s the case?” The doctor strokes her chin, interested in me again as a psychological piece of work.

I wasn’t about to get into a therapy session with her, so I wad the tissue and stand. “I’ve taken enough of your time. There’s no other information you can give me?”

She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me but is too courteous to dig further. Sweeping a hand over the folders, she says, “You may take my files. I’m almost retired, call me anytime. This man deserves the truth, or he may believe you’re rejecting him because of his disability.”

I toss the tissue in the wastebasket, a little more forcefully than I should. “It’s not. I told him that. I don’t understand why he wants to spend more time with me.”

“What does he want to do?”

“Talk, hang around. Do things together, like go to the ballet, or the opera, take walks.”

“Sounds romantic.” The doctor stands and presses the creases from her skirt. “I know you didn’t ask for a diagnosis, but I’m concerned you’re afraid of intimacy because you fear replacing your father.”

I hitch my handbag across my shoulder. “That’s not true. I’m too independent to get stuck on one man.”

“That’s what you tell yourself.” She asks her assistant to pack the files in a box and help me to my car. Patting my shoulder, she says, “Give love a chance, Vera. It’s not too late.”