Knowing Vera (Romantic Suspense, Family Drama) (Chance for Love) (23 page)

My Toyota’s parked in the street, so I don’t have to open the garage door and disturb everyone. I put my bear in the box of papers and step into the hallway. Should I ask Papa to come with me?

I should have spoken to him when he was awake. But Mama was so happy and they were all lovey-dovey. They could even be sleeping together.

I can’t bother them. Mama would ask too many questions and not let us go, so I sneak out of the house and get in my car. It starts after a few cranks, and I enter Golden Gate Bridge into the GPS unit.

My heart is thudding faster than a rice cooker on steam, wondering who I’m about to meet: Tito Louie, Zach’s father, Aunt Addy, or someone else who worked at the winery.

Taking a heavy breath, I stare at my phone. Zach’s picture grins at me when I select his name. Whatever I discover on that bridge, I want him to know, to hear from me first. I call him, but when his phone starts ringing, I chicken out. What if he won’t pick up or worse, hang up on me?

Dropping the phone, I turn on the voice recorder and clip it inside the center of my bra. I have enough memory for hundreds of hours.

“Zach, I need to tell you the truth.” I take several breaths, feeling like I’m about to walk off a cliff. “I might have killed your mother.”

I put the transmission on drive and pull from the curb.

“I’m going to the Golden Gate Bridge to meet someone who saw what happened. My memories are returning. There was a knife, one with a white and brown streaked handle. It looks a lot like the knife Dex stole from my father. I was holding the knife and it was bloody. I remember my uncle yelling for me to drop it. I don’t remember anything else until my father took me to the bridge. He kept telling me it wasn’t real, that she wasn’t dead, that it was a dream, and that I couldn’t tell anyone.”

I check the rear view mirror to see if I’m being followed. The flow of traffic is sparse on the freeway. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or not, but a set of headlights weaves in and out, always behind me. I speed up.

Wiping the tears from my face, I speak into the recorder, “I’m not going to make any excuses for myself. Something must have happened. Maybe I snapped, or it was an accident. But now you know why I had to break up with you. I want you to have a happy life, deal with the grief and move on.”

I gag on my words, unable to speak, so I drive, staring straight in front of me, miles and miles, until my sobs subside.

All lanes lead toward the toll booths, and its hard to concentrate on the merges. I can’t tell if the same set of headlights is still trailing me or not. My chest aches, but I have to continue talking.

“I respect you and don’t want to ever lie to you again. So I have to tell you even if it hurts. Cliff has a picture of me with him in the shower.” A horn blares and I swerve, the tires clattering on the dots between the lanes. I slow at the tollgate and wait for my electronic toll unit to click. I have to concentrate with all the lane changes and people cutting me off.

“I was showering and he walked in. I didn’t invite him, but I didn’t fight him off. I was wrong to let him touch me, but it didn’t go any further. I didn’t have sex with him, and I don’t want him. Maybe you don’t believe me, but I wish I’d never slept around, that I’d saved myself for you. But it’s too late now.”

I’m driving like a robot. The GPS unit specifies the lane changes and I follow automatically. My tires drone over metallic grates, and traffic slows over the rumble strips. Fortunately, no one is trailing me since I’m driving so erratically they’d rear end me if they tried.

Picturing Zach listening to my recording makes my throat swell with such longing I almost choke. I have to leave him a positive parting note.

“Zach, I want you to have a wonderful life. You deserve it. I’ll always remember those few days we spent on the island as the best I ever had. You were so good to me, a dream come true. I love you so much. I’ll always love you and I’ll remember you fondly, treasure every moment we had.”

My chest aches and my heart splinters into a thousand pieces. I turn on the windshield wipers before realizing it’s tears blurring my vision.

Traffic is light through the Mission District at this time of night. I get off at the last stop before the bridge and turn into the small parking lot near the plaza. It is empty of the usual tour buses and taxicabs.

I quell my weeping, strengthening myself for the encounter. “I’m at the Golden Gate now. Soon, I’ll know what really happened. Or maybe not. Maybe it all begins and ends on this bridge.”

Could it be Tito Louie? Is he in so much pain he can’t wait? But he’d need help. I can’t remember if he still drives or not. A chill freezes the back of my neck and I step out of the car. The bridge does not have a suicide barrier.

I scan my surroundings. There’s no one sitting in any of the parked cars. A bum shuffles under a streetlamp, and wind blows scattered papers around in a circle.

A few minutes later, a bell jingles and a man riding a tandem bike approaches from the plaza.

He stops in front of me. “Vera.”

“Cliff? What are you doing here?” I should have known. He seems to be in the middle of everything—a recurring bad dream.

“Aren’t you happy to see me? I’m about to give you everything you want.”

“Oh, really?” I slide back toward my car. “I want the truth, something you’re incapable of delivering.”

He walks the bike toward me. “Oh yeah? You’ll be thanking me before the night is over. I found a witness.”

“Is it Tito Louie? Where is he?”

Cliff crosses his arms and shakes his head slowly. “Patience. Did you bring the bear and box of drawings?”

“Yes, but what do you want them for?”

“A trade.” He opens my car door and retrieves the items. “You didn’t think he’d give information for free, did you?”

“I, ah, well. No. I thought he’d want money.”

Cliff drops the box and my bear into a basket attached to the handlebars. “Get on the bike. He doesn’t have much time.”

“Why?” I climb onto the back seat of the bicycle built for two and he kicks off, but does not answer me. I’m not about to pedal. Sorry, he’ll have to take the weight. My job is to keep him talking.

“I don’t see what’s so special about the bridge. Other than the fact my father jumped from it. You know, if you’re thinking of reenacting my father’s great escape, it won’t work. They have security cameras, guards, police on bikes.”

“We’re a honeymooning couple. They won’t bother us.”

“You better not be mooning me or I’ll throw up.” I make a gagging gesture which is lost on him since the only view I get is his back.

“Ha, ha, you’re so funny.” He gets up off the seat to take the bike up the incline toward the bridge. “Can’t you pedal back there?”

“Nope, your trip, your treat.” I yawn loudly.

Cliff presses the buzzer at the gate and waves to the camera and the gate opens. He pedals slowly onto the pedestrian walkway and points out the sights as if he really were taking me on a tour. The roaring of the traffic makes it hard for me to hear. I hadn’t factored this in with my wise idea of recording.

About halfway up the bridge, a bicyclist going the opposite direction veers toward us. Cliff stops the bike and flips down the kickstand and helps me off.

A heavyset man wearing a knit cap and sunglasses walks toward me. “So, little girl. We meet again. Did you bring the bear?”

He has a strange accent, Asian mixed with British. He clamps his arm over my shoulder and moves under a streetlamp near the rail.

“I have them over here,” Cliff says, pointing to the bicycle basket.

“Good,” the man says. “Now I’ll tell you what I saw.”

“Was it me?” My voice barely clears my throat. The man smells like a mixture of cigarette smoke and cinnamon gum.

“No, Zach’s father killed his mother.”

My hands clap my face. So it was
his
father all along, not mine! Poor Zach. This will destroy him.

“Here’s what went down.” The man wakes up a cell phone and enters numbers on the dial pad. “You walked into the greenhouse to find Zach’s ball. It’s the red one with white stars. Zach’s parents were arguing, screaming at each other. You crawl on the floor under the potting table and find the ball. You’re about to leave when his father cuts his mother’s throat. You scream and he comes toward you, the knife dripping with blood. Do you remember what he tells you?”

My voice is on autopilot. I’m staring into the dark panels of his sunglasses as if they’re empty sockets in a skull. “He told me not to tell or he’ll kill my mother.”

“Good girl. What color eyes did he have?”

“Blue.”

“His name is Jack Spencer. Make sure you say that when I call the police hotline. You ready?”

He presses ‘call’ and places his cell phone in front of my mouth.

“Wait, wait!” I wave him off, and he pushes ‘end call’ immediately. “What happened next? How did I get blood on myself?”

Cliff says, “We don’t have much time. We’re supposed to keep pedaling and not stop in the middle of the bridge.”

The man motions for him to shut up and presses his cheek against mine. “Jack Spencer drops the knife in front of you and runs. You pick it up and your dad sees you. He takes you away. I’m sure you remember the rest. Don’t waste any more time.”

“Sure, but why don’t you tell the police? Why me?”

“I’m an illegal alien. Cliff just found me, but I can’t testify or I’ll be deported. Besides, I help you and your family, and your father finds me a job.”

“Okay. I got it. Let’s do it.” I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans, and he reenters the number. I recite my lines exactly as he tells me, but when I get to the part about the blue eyes, I hesitate. There’s something familiar about this guy who’s smacking his gum, something about his jutting jaw. I’ve seen him before. Recently. Why’s he wearing sunglasses at night? What color eyes does he have?

I snatch his sunglasses and toss them into the bay. The glare of the streetlight reveals blue eyes under a bushy dark unibrow.

The man spits his gum at me. It’s Felipe, the gardener at my father’s winery.

“I saw you on the bridge, back when—when my father jumped,” I say in Tagalog.

Felipe growls and throws the phone into the water. His fist swings around and catches the side of my head. A shocking ball of pain explodes in my left ear and I taste blood.

“What are you doing?” Cliff shouts over the traffic noise.

“Throw the bear and the box over,” Felipe yells. His big hands tackle me and he lifts me over the rail. I scream and grab the vertical bars with both hands. My feet land on the narrow ledge separating the bridge from the water below. The rail vibrates to my bones, a riotous hum from the traffic and wind. My bear arcs over my head into the dark water followed by the box, its papers scattering like confetti.

Felipe swings his leg over the rail and joins me on the ledge below the bridge.

“Don’t you dare call the police, or I’ll throw her into the water,” he yells at Cliff.

“You said you’d let her go,” Cliff says. “After she convicts Mr. Spencer.”

“We can’t trust her. She’ll change the story and pin it on me to save Zach’s family. Didn’t I teach you about women? Double crossing bitches like your mother?”

Cliff is pacing the sidewalk pulling his hair. “Dad, please. Let me ride away with her to the other side where my car is. Let me take her to Reno and marry her. Please, I love her.”

Dad? He’s Cliff’s father?
Car horns blare and tires screech. Footsteps echo on the sidewalk and someone yells, “Don’t jump.”

It’s Zach. My heart expands with hope. He must have been following me. Maybe he cares, after all.

“Shit,” Felipe mutters in my ear. “You scream and you’re a goner. I’ll tell him you tried to jump, and I’m saving you.”

I nod desperately, hoping Zach will back off and call the police.

“She tried to jump,” Felipe waves. “It’s all under control.”

Zach flips himself over the rail and joins us. “Vera, give me your hand.”

I’m stuck two-hundred and forty feet above the bay between a maniac and the man I love. My only chance is to convince Felipe I’m on his side, that he should save me for Cliff.

“Go away, Zach. I don’t need you to interfere.”

“Vera, please. Give me your hand and we can talk where it’s safe. Whatever happened, it’s not worth your life.” Zach edges closer.

I know my voice recorder is still going so I might as well embellish. “Stay back. Jack Spencer did it and I hate him. He was always mean to me. He wouldn’t let me play with little Zach. I’ll testify in court that he’s the killer.”

“What are you talking about?” Zach’s face contorts with confusion. “Come with me. I can help you.”

“No,” Cliff’s father says. “She belongs to my son.”

He turns toward his left and hoists me up to the rail. Cliff yanks me over and onto the sidewalk. I wriggle out of his arms and run toward the traffic, screaming and waving to flag down help. When I turn back, Cliff jumps on his father’s bicycle and pedals furiously toward Marin County.

My heart stops cold. Zach is struggling with Felipe who’s trying to throw him off the bridge. I pat myself for my cell phone, before I realize it’s still in my car. Panting, I rush to the rail and look down.

Zach’s right arm is wrapped around a suspension cable that attaches to the iron bar he’s standing on. He swings at Felipe with his left hand. Felipe ducks and climbs down to a beam below the ledge. He pries at Zach’s feet to dislodge him. I reach under the rail and hold desperately onto Zach’s muscular thigh.

He tries to climb up to the sidewalk, but Felipe grabs his left foot, twists hard and pulls.

“Ahhh!” Zach’s howl merges with a ripping, popping sound, and the prosthesis snaps off his leg.

Felipe falls, arms windmilling for four long seconds, followed by a sickening splash below.

My ears must have blocked out the sound of it because I don’t hear the traffic, nor do I hear the police cars. Everyone gestures, and their mouths move.

All I see are the orange pylons, the suspension ties, and above it, the stars I cannot name.

The last few days have been a blur. I gave my statement multiple times to the police. They retrieved a wet and soggy Bing-Bing and as much of the papers and files as they could, and also recovered the body of Felipe, Cliff’s father. Since he fell, the police lost their only other eyewitness, although they’re analyzing the recording I made to confirm what he told me on the bridge.

Meanwhile, Owen arranged for a police detective to witness a session with Dr. Apodaca where she helps me recover my memories. We step out of his car in front of her office into a mob of reporters.

I walk with Owen as he fends them off. “No comment, no comment. Let my client through.”

“Who killed Mrs. Spencer?”

“Did you see the murderer?”

“How does Zach Spencer feel about you now?”

I grit my teeth, glad my eyes are hidden by sunglasses. I’m entombed in an anesthetic numbness. Even though Zach came to my rescue, he left after giving his statement to the police and returned to Australia without saying goodbye. Apparently I hadn’t hung up my phone after I called him. He heard everything I dictated to the voice recorder, including the last part about the picture with Cliff. And, of course, he was there when I accused his father of murder.

Flashes blink from the reporters’ cameras, and onlookers crane with their camera phones. I shove a mic away and elbow my way up the porch steps. The receptionist opens the door, and we slide in.

Detective Harper is already there. She’s in charge of the investigation and believes I saw the murder and repressed the memory. Dr. Apodaca welcomes us into her office, and we take our seats.

I try to take calming breaths, but no matter what I do, I’m jumpy. If I help convict Zach’s father, I’ll take away his remaining parent, and he’ll never want anything to do with me, not even as a friend.

“Mind if I record this session?” the detective asks Owen.

“My client has nothing to hide.” He quirks his head at me. “Is it okay with you?”

“Yes. I want the truth, wherever it leads.”

“That’s what we all want,” Dr. Apodaca says. “Vera, I want you to relax and cast all thought from your mind, then say anything that comes. You’re safe with us here. Don’t strain to remember, let it come out. You’re seven. It’s a rainy day in March and you don’t have school; it’s a teacher work day. You go with your father to work because you want to play with Zach. Is he there?”

I bow my head and cover my eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Deep and cleansing. Several moments pass and I let go my anxiety. I am no longer in control. I’m seven. I’m excited to visit the winery. “I want to play with Zach, but I lost his ball. He didn’t want to play with me.”

A pang echoes in the desolate caverns of my heart. Just like now.

“How do you feel about it?” the doctor asks in a gentle voice.

“Sad. I look for his mother. She’s always in the greenhouse tending her orchids. She likes me, because every time I leave, she gives me one to put in my hair. But Mama makes me throw it away. She doesn’t like Mrs. Spencer.”

“When your father brings you, what does he tell Mama?”

“He says I have to sing for Tito Louie, and Mama never argues with him. She lets me go.”

“Does Tito Louie work at the greenhouse?”

“Yes, he lives there.” The images are flowing through my head, as if I were there: the fragrance of the orchids, sweet cinnamon with oranges and chocolate, the humidity and warm scent of earth and moist plants. “There’s a fountain with coins. Tito Louie always takes a lucky penny and gives it to me.”

“Do you get one?”

“No.” Darkness seeps, soggy and dank, into my memory. “I see a man wearing rubber gloves and a plastic face shield.”

“What’s he doing?” the doctor asked.

“Spraying the plants. It stinks like poison.”

“Where’s Mrs. Spencer?”

“She walks in. He drops the tank and pushes her and then, then …”

“What does he do?”

“He’s arguing with Mrs. Spencer.”

“What happens next?”

“Mrs. Spencer screams. I duck under a table because I’m scared. I find the ball and I hit my head. I see …”

My throat closes, but the words pop out. “She’s bleeding, and I’m holding the ball and my bear. The man takes the ball and throws it, but I’m crying, and I can’t move. He yells at me.”

“What does he say?”

“You didn’t see anything. I’ll kill your mother and your bear. He stabs Bing-Bing and makes Bing-Bing bloody. I take the knife out of Bing-Bing, but the man is gone.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

“He’s mean looking, and his eyes are blue.”

Dr. Apodaca takes a piece of paper and turns it in front of me. It is a drawing I made of blue eyes under a dark line. “Like this?”

“Yes.” I cringe, shoving my chair back. It hits a metal file cabinet.

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“You’re doing great, Vera. Is there anything else you remember?”

“She was beautiful, even in death. Her blond curls framed her icy blue eyes, her pink lips half open like she was singing to her baby.”

“I think we have enough,” Dr. Apodaca says. “You did well.”

“Did that help?” I ask Detective Harper. Inside, I’m jittery and lightheaded, unsure of who I had implicated, except it wasn’t me.

“Certainly. While we can’t use your memories as evidence in court, you’ve given me leads to follow up. I’m going to review Detective Ross’ notes and visit him at the nursing home. I’ll also look over the witnesses’ statements and interview them if they’re still alive.” She stands and shakes my hand. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something.”

Dr. Apodaca follows her into the hallway and shuts the door.

“I knew it wasn’t you.” Owen winks. “Who do you think did it?”

“Not my father, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t have stabbed Bing-Bing.”

Owen rubs my shoulder. “True, neither would you.”

Dr. Apodaca returns from seeing the detective out. “Detective Harper has agreed to let me tell you about the blood found on your dress.”

My stomach sinks like a ball of lead. The blood points to my father because a paternity test matched me 99%.

I wring my hands. “Maybe there’s a good explanation why my father was bleeding.”

“There is, but first, let’s meet your parents in the park,” Dr. Apodaca says. “Mr. Williams, what I have to tell Vera is private.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Owen says. “Gives me time to cogitate on the clues.”

“Okay, I’ll call you when I’m done,” I promise him after we step out of the doctor’s office. Fortunately, all the reporters are gone. These days I feel like a giant “no comment.” There’s nothing left inside me, no tears, no feelings, no hope, no future.

The doctor and I cross the street. My mother and father wave to us from the entrance of the public garden. The roses have been pruned for the winter, but the grass is fresh cut and fragrant.

“Vera, it’s time for the truth.” My father clasps my hand. “I didn’t kill Mrs. Spencer, but I had to protect my brother. He was Mrs. Spencer’s lover. I heard your screams and ran into the greenhouse. Louie’s hand was bleeding, and he was hysterical. You stood there, holding the knife, screaming and screaming like a train whistle. I was so pissed that he passed the knife to you, I punched him and told him to go away. He was always making messes for me to clean up.”

I catch the significance immediately. The blood on my dress was Tito Louie’s—99% paternity. I stare at my mother, my mouth gaping wide open, and then my stomach sinks. Tito Louie’s not only my biological father, but he killed Lillian Spencer. I’m still the daughter of her murderer.

“I’m so sorry,
M’iha
,” Mama cries out, covering her face.

Papa puts his arm around her. “Let’s walk around the fountain and let Dr. Apodaca tell her.”

“Mama?” I touch her shoulder. “No matter what, I love you.”

She hugs me, patting my back. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

Gently, my father leads her away. They walk slowly toward the center of the park. I’m touched at how much he loves her, how careful he is of her. The way he looks at her grips my heart. For a brief moment, I knew that kind of love.

“Come, Vera.” Dr. Apodaca’s dry voice prods me. “Your mother gave me permission to speak for her.”

She places her hand on my shoulder. Her scent of rosewater and dust evokes memories of the many afternoons I spent in her office playing dolls and drawing pictures. My mother couldn’t have afforded her hourly fee, and I realize she’d been babysitting me because she cared about me.

We walk toward the gates and sit in the shade of the fir trees. I glance at the doctor, and she has tears in her eyes.

“Your mother was a seventeen-year-old girl,” she says. “Her family was very wealthy. They were diplomats and lived in Makati, Forbes Park. Her name at the time was Maria with a long list of surnames tacked on, all indicating her pedigree back to the Spanish conquerors. She was devoted to God and wanted to serve Him in the convent, and her parents were overjoyed with her choice. But she had one wish—to learn a musical instrument. She loved the sound of the mandolin. Louie was an instructor for Lillian Morelli, wife of an American diplomat and owner of Morelli Vineyards in Napa Valley.”

No wonder Owen told me the name of the old winery was significant, the one Mrs. Spencer inherited from her first husband. Why hadn’t I put it together? I had cut him off with some rambling about Zach’s father extorting Mr. Ping’s vineyard.

Dr. Apodaca continues. “Lillian introduced Louie to your mother.”

I’m confused about the linkage. My uncle said he dated an American woman, a married one. I clap my hand over my forehead. Had Felipe adopted Cliff? Taken the baby my uncle had with Lillian as his own? Which means Cliff is my half-brother?

“Are you listening?” Dr. Apodaca taps my shoulder.

“Oh, yes, please. I want to know what happened.”

“As I was saying, your uncle was nineteen years older than your mother, and he took advantage of her. Maybe it was date rape, maybe your mother was seduced. She was underage, and Filipino law at that time specifies statutory rape if the man is more than ten years older. This is where your father stepped in. He was only nine years older than your mother.”

I’m hearing all these words and not quite processing it, not believing my father could be either so noble or so stupid. He must have really loved my mother. Or was it the love for his brother that compelled him?

“Why did my mother’s family allow the marriage?”

“They didn’t. Lillian Morelli spirited all three of them away in a US Embassy jet. She was involved with Louie and wanted to save his skin. Your parents and uncle were and still are illegal aliens.”

Someone once told me they were illegal, but I can’t remember who. Was it Cliff or Zach?

“Do the police know? I hope they won’t be deported.”

“Let’s not worry about it right now,” the doctor replies. “I have to give you more background on Louie and why your father risked his neck to cover for him.”

“Okay, please continue.” I stretch and take a deep breath to relieve the pressure pushing down on my belly. Everything feels surreal, as if this were someone else’s story, not mine.

“Louie is part Japanese. I know it’s not a big deal to you, but he was born in 1946 after the Japanese withdrawal.”

“Japanese?” No wonder my mother’s always referring to the mysterious Tsinoy relatives I’ve never met, taught me how to cook Chinese food. She was trying to hide my Japanese ancestry.

“Yes,” Dr. Apodaca says. “It was a shame for a Filipina to have been used as a comfort woman by the Japanese soldiers. That’s why Louie’s mother hid him. He spent the first ten years of his life locked in a closet.”

My poor uncle. This explains why my father couldn’t allow him to be jailed. Ten years with no motherly love, no comfort, feeling scared and lonely, rejected. I dab at my eyes. “My father’s nine years younger. Did his mother change her mind when Papa was born?”

“Not exactly. Family tradition has it one of your grandmother’s servants left your father in the bathtub when he was a baby. Louie would listen to your father babble and play with his toys. One day, he heard no sounds. He screamed and pounded on the closet door, but no one came. In a fit of strength, he broke through the door and found your father face down in the tub. By the time the servants arrived, he had revived your father. Everyone said he was a hero, and your grandmother let him out of the closet on the condition that one of the servants claim him as her son. The maid who was responsible for bathing the baby stepped forward. After your father was old enough, Louie told your father he was his brother, and his adoptive mother confirmed it, but to her dying breath, his own mother denied him.”

“That was so unfair. It must have been hard for my uncle.”
My biological father.
A shockwave thuds in my gut. I pinch the bridge of my nose, my head starting to throb. Everything’s pouring over me, too much to absorb. “Why did Papa cover for him and marry Mama?”

Dr. Apodaca rubs my shoulder. “He loves her so much, he never wanted this secret to come out. He married her and took you as his own daughter. He knew if Mrs. Spencer’s murder went to trial, the blood evidence would point to Louie, and everyone would know you’re Louie’s daughter.”

“I can’t believe it!” I clench my fists. “I know it’s a shame, but why did my father waste all these years covering for a crime he didn’t commit?”

“Louie saved his life.” Dr. Apodaca pats my back. “There’s family honor, too. But no matter what, your parents and uncle love you very much.”

“I don’t know what to think.” My shoulders quake and I dig my fingers into the pressure points on my temple.

So much has been dropped on me. My father’s not my father. Zach has a half-brother. And Cliff? He’s the motive for this entire mess, the baby Mrs. Spencer gave away. But who fathered him? My uncle or Felipe?

We walk back to her office. Owen is waiting on the porch, and I can tell by the serious expression on his face that he’s deep in thought trying to figure out the mystery.

After I say goodbye to the doctor, he takes my arm. “We should compare notes and figure out who the killer is.”