Life in Fiction Read online

  * * *

  Pulling out of the Shady Oyster parking lot, the storm that threatened all day finally unleashed a torrent of rain.

  I drove home to my mother’s beachfront compound. It was located on the same long strand of beach where Junior Slade had washed up on the shore, so many years ago, and where Jimmy Slade still lived.

  My mother and her tony neighbors lived on the north end of the strand. Jimmy Slade lived on the south end filled with cheap apartments and small flimsy beach bungalows. Most of those properties were summer rentals. The division separating the lifestyles was marked by the large sandy walkway leading from the city street to the ocean. My mother has lived here since she divorced my father fifteen years ago. I live on my mother’s compound in a small cottage she built for me after my traumatic divorce. It suits me just fine, for now.

  Pulling through the private wrought-iron gates, I noticed the lights still on in my mother’s office window. Good. She was working, probably conjuring up the horrific death of some innocent victim of circumstance. Maybe her mood would be ripe for a little conversation about Jimmy Slade.

  I parked the car under the portico. The rain was coming down sideways now so I made a mad dash for the front door. Letting myself in I was greeted by the only male presence on the compound, the family Rottweiler, L.W. My mother, being a serious movie fan, named him after the movie Lethal Weapon, just like she named me after Grace Kelly and my younger sister Audrey after Hepburn.

  I slipped off my wet Keds, left them in the foyer and headed for her office. The door was ajar and I peeked in the room. My mother’s beautiful face, full of concentration, hid well the evil creative thoughts that lurked within.

  “Hey, mom,” I said. “Have a minute?”

  “Sweetie! Come on in.”

  I liked that she immediately turned from her computer and focused her full attention on me. That wasn’t always the case.

  “Have a drink with me, Gracie,” she said, waving me to sit down. “Lord knows, it’s cold and raining harder than a cow pissing on a flat rock. Besides, I’m ready for my next one.” She pulled down a crystal tumbler from the mini-bar, opened the Jim Beam on her desk and poured us both a double shot. I wondered how many “next one’s” she’d already had. “Did you want something to eat? Margarite’s out tonight with friends, but she left some casserole in the oven.”

  Margarite was my mother’s chef, housekeeper, confidante and the woman that raised me and my sister while my mother was busy becoming rich and famous. I took my drink and headed for the bar. I dropped in a handful of ice cubes.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “So tell me,” she said. “What the hell did that crazy bastard want with you?”

  “How did you know I was meeting with Jimmy?”

  “Saw it on your appointment book.” She raised a perfectly manicured finger to stop my response. “Not snooping, mind you. I was looking for you earlier and stopped in, thought we might order some Chinese. Your appointment book was open on your kitchen table.”

  She relaxed back against her oversized office chair, tucked her warm chenille robe around her legs, took a comfortable sip of bourbon and never broke her gaze. She couldn’t fool me. Mystery writers are the biggest meddling snoops. Mental note: lock my front door. It might not stop her, but at least it would slow her down.

  I plopped in the chair across from her desk and swung my legs across the arm.

  “Jimmy wants to hire me.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To look into Junior’s death,” I said. I took my own comfortable sip of bourbon and the burn down my throat made my eyes tear. “Jimmy Slade still believes someone killed his son.”

  “Well, of course someone killed that child,” she said. “He did.”

  “The police don’t think so,” I said, carefully. I didn’t want to sound like I was baiting my mother on this topic. And I really wasn’t. My mother and I never had an in- depth discussion on Junior’s death. I had been young myself when the incident occurred. I didn’t really comprehend his death then, anymore than I comprehended the fame and fortune that followed it.

  “Well, his wife, Candy, thought so,” she said. My mother leaned into her desk. “Candy didn’t have any proof, but she told me some of the horrors that went on in that house.” She stopped and stared into her drink. “Of course the poor woman never said anything to the police. She was terrified of Slade and at the time, totally dependent on him. Besides, what was she going to say? ‘I think my husband killed my child because he’s a mean son-of-a-bitch, slaps me around, forces me to have sex, terrifies Junior when the child wets his bed, and runs our house like a boot camp?’”

  Her eyes glittered with anger and drink. She polished off her glass of bourbon and set the tumbler down with a thud. “That, baby girl, does not add up to killing your child with the police. Only makes you a suspect or person of interest. They need a little more than that. But to me? It spells guilty.”

  I sat quiet. I thought of the man I saw tonight. Worn out, helpless, useless. Crawling through his days until death wore him down, finding satisfaction in drinking beer and eating Tootsie Rolls.

  “He thinks you stole his life with your book,” I said.

  “He’s a moron.”

  She got up and headed for the mini-bar, dumped some ice cubes in her tumbler and headed back to her desk to refresh her drink. At least she wasn’t doing straight shots anymore. “You can do want you want, but my advice to you is to stay away from him. He’s dangerous. I don’t trust him and neither should you.”

  “He told me he’s dying,” I said.

  “Not soon enough.”

  She looked away from me and stared out her large ocean front window. The rain was splattering hard against the glass. In the reflection I caught the glisten of tears forming in her eyes. My internal struggle was raising its ugly head. I didn’t want my mother’s angry advice to influence my decision. I had let that happen too many times in my life, sometimes to my benefit, sometimes to my detriment. I’m all for listening to information and suggestions, but I need to feel the final decision is mine to make.

  “I need to go, it’s getting late.” I got up, put my empty glass in the mini-bar sink and stopped at her office door. “I love you mom. Please don’t worry about me.”

  She waved a dismissive hand at me. “I love you, too.”

  As I shut the door, I heard a muffled sob. I felt like a traitor.

  The rain raged all night but the morning produced clear blue skies and sweet- smelling salt air. The bougainvilleas and Birds of Paradise around the house seemed brighter. The grey boulders separating the beach from the land that housed the north side of the property were clean of seagull droppings and the ocean was quiet.

  I decided that morning to hold off calling Jimmy Slade. I wanted to poke around myself and see what I could dig up on the eighteen-year-old case. Over my morning caffeine fix, I booted up my laptop and researched everything I could about the very public death of Junior Slade. I would have liked to review my mother’s original notes on the subject but I knew that would not happen. At least, it wouldn’t happen today. As it turned out, everything I read, I already knew. I printed all the local newspaper articles involved and several small blurbs that ran in the LA Times. I shoved them in my purse.

  I also wanted to make a trip to the police station and see if I could get the phone number of retired Captain Mueller, the officer in charge the day Junior’s body was discovered. I pulled up two addresses, one locally and the other in Utah. I was sure that was a retirement home. I hoped he would be willing to speak with me and provide me with some crucial and un-prejudicial insight. I did a quick search on Jimmy Slade’s ex-wife Candy Slade. She still lived in town and I wrote down her address.

  Eager to get started, I took a quick shower, gave my hair a fast blow dry and pulled it back in a ponytail. I brushed on a light blush, ran a light coral lip
gloss across my lips and touched my eyes up with mascara. I stepped back from the mirror. Not too bad for thirty-years old. Besides, I didn’t know if I would bump into my ex-husband at the station. I stepped into my daily uniform of jeans, white t-shirt, black blazer and white Keds.

  As it turned out, the local police station was almost a complete waste. Captain Mueller had retired over ten years ago and now lived full time in Utah and rented out his home here. I was able to get his Utah phone number. Other officers involved on the case were also retired or dead. I didn’t run into my ex and wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or relieved. I’d have to think about that.

  I did a quick drive over to the rundown mobile home park on the far end of town that was the current address of Candy Slade. It was apparent her life had fared no better than Jimmy’s. She wasn’t there and I slipped my card into her front door and left. I would try back tomorrow.

  My nervous energy had my stomach growling and I decided there’s nothing like a late morning burrito to solve that problem. My car automatically pulled into my favorite eating joint, Taco Mania.

  I put in my order and sat down. I pulled out the copies of the newspaper articles and started jotting down the names of all the reporters that had done articles on the tragedy. I know reporters take good notes, tend to keep them forever and love to dish on old cases they’ve covered. If any of these guys were still around, I thought it might be worth a shot to get their opinion after eighteen years. Tracking down these guys would take a good portion of the afternoon, and depending on the results, might make me feel more justified in my decision of Jimmy Slade’s job offer.

  Polishing off my lunch, I decided to head home. I also decided to stay clear of my mother the rest of the day.

  Pulling onto the compound I by-passed the main house and drove straight to my cottage. Once inside I opened all the windows and let the cool ocean air refresh the house and my thoughts. I sat down at my little kitchen table, opened up a bottled water, turned on my laptop, pulled out my cell phone and started the tedious job of making phone calls.

  The afternoon proved to be quite frustrating. All of the calls led me on a wild goose chase of locating people that had either moved out of state, retired or had passed away. I left my name and number with everyone I talked to and hoped for the best. My head hurt and I headed for the couch to rest my brain for a couple of minutes and promptly fell asleep.

  I awakened with a jolt. Evening had rolled around and the room was dark. I sat up and flipped on the lamp beside the couch. I automatically reached for my cell phone to check for messages, even though I knew the ring would have awakened me. No calls. I needed to get my body moving.

  I slipped out of my jeans and pulled on my sweat pants and light sweat top. I headed outside and down the sun bleached wooden steps that connected the compound to the beach below. At the bottom I punched in the code to unlock the privacy gate and stepped out onto the sand. It was a clear night and the moon was hanging like a searchlight over the ocean. I kicked off my sandals and looked up and down the beach. I was alone. I glanced back at the main house and could see my mother’s office lit up. Other homes along the strand were alight with families in the midst of their dinner or watching their favorite TV programs.

  Heading south down the beach I was drawn to the rocks that jutted out into the shallow water. The very place Junior’s body had been found.

  Sidestepping the kelp and debris washed up by the storm, I reached the rocks. Boulders of all shapes and sizes glimmered in the moonlight. Seawater curled and sloshed around the bottom where slimy vegetation clung. I stepped on the smaller boulders and launched myself up to the largest boulder and sat down facing the ocean.

  I thought about Junior, four years younger than I at the time of his death. He would be 26 years old now. What a waste. Could it be my mother was right and the police wrong? Was Junior really killed? What possible motive did his father or anyone for that matter, have to kill this young boy? I thought of the years I had spent working as a Parking Enforcement Officer. I had witnessed people displaying their finest behavior. Giving people a parking ticket could send them into uncontrollable rages. I’d been spit on, cursed at, punched and had my life threatened. Unfortunately, people have been killed for less than receiving a stupid parking ticket. I needed to think of a fresh avenue to pursue.

  The water started breaking harder against the rocks and I noticed a subtle shift in the weather. A sudden chill swept down the strand. I hadn’t brought my jacket and decided it was a good time to start heading back.

  Placing my foot down on the rock below, I slipped. My arms flailed for a moment. I regained my balance by leaning over and grabbing the lower rock in front of me. The area below twinkled with littered waxy pieces of paper flittering around the rocks in the breeze. I reached down and picked one up. A Tootsie Roll wrapper. My heart missed a beat. This was new trash.

  “Beautiful night, huh Gracie?”

  My body jumped and sent me off balance again. I grabbed the rock again and twisted around.

  “Jesus, Jimmy,” I said. “You scared the shit out of me.” My heart was thumping so loud it affected my hearing. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I come out here,” he said. “Occasionally.”

  The moon light reflected from his dark eyes. It gave him an eerie, crazy look. He still had on the same clothes from yesterday and looked just as beaten.

  “Here, Gracie.” He held out his gnarled hand to me. “Let me help you down.”

  Adrenaline shot through me like electricity. I thought of my gun safely tucked away in a shoe box at the back of my closet.

  “That’s all right.” I balanced myself. “I can make it.”

  I sat on the boulder and slid all the way down until my feet landed with a splash in the shifty surf. Jimmy reached out to steady me and I pulled back. A cloud passed across the moon and a veil of darkness dropped across us. The seaweed curled around my ankles and water churned at my feet.

  Jimmy’s eyes bore into mine. At that moment, I knew.

  “Why’d you kill him, Jimmy?” I asked. “He was your son. Just a little boy and you bashed his head on the rocks.”

  I didn’t know if Jimmy was going to answer me. He looked frozen, his body stiff.

  “He wasn’t my son.”

  My reaction was a sharp intake of breath that almost choked me.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, as the reality of this news sunk in.

  “He’s wasn’t my son,” he repeated, with an anger from deep within his soul.

  “When did you find out?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “When he was a baby.”

  “A baby?”

  “She wouldn’t let me forget it!”

  His voice echoed down the beach and he started wringing his hands with dismay.

  “Candy,” I said.

  “That whore.”

  I took a step back.

  “So she cheated and you took it out for years on Junior. My mother was right. You are a murdering, miserable bastard.”

  His eyes deepened with blatant madness.

  Before my flight muscles activated, he reached out, grabbed my ponytail and jerked my head back. I yelped so loud in surprise I could hear the echo of my voice. A sharp pain shot through my neck and throat muscles.

  Automatically I reached back and clawed at his eyes. My thumb connected with an eyeball and I shoved it up into the socket.

  “Bitch!”

  His grip loosened just enough for me to pull away and run. I scrambled forward frantically, trying to not trip over entangled seaweed. The breaking surf was slopping on shore with small waves grabbing at my ankles. My feet tangled on slippery kelp and I was thrust forward, my arms wind-milling as I tried to stay balanced and move forward. The wet sand made my efforts sluggish. I could hear Jimmy’s heavy breathing behind me.

  Before I could fully
recover, he brought me down like prey. The full weight of his body fell on me. He was thin but taut, hard muscle. A faint sliver of moonlight emerged from behind the slow moving cloud that had darkened the beach. I heard the click of a switchblade release before I caught the silver glint in the moonlight.

  Jimmy’s hand wrapped around my throat and he straddled me. I tried to reach his eyes but his arms were long and he held me down tight, pinned to the wet sand. My hands instinctively grabbed for his hand around my throat and tried to scratch and dig his fingers loose.

  “Payback time for your momma,” he said.

  I detected a sinister glee in his voice. His eyes became wild and locked in a zone of violence. My voice couldn’t scream and air was coming in short supply. An excruciating pain shot through my side and I realized he was slowly forcing the switchblade in to me. Icy water rippled around my body. My lungs started to shut down.

  I could feel myself slipping away. I saw no bright light. No afterworld beckoning me. No dead relatives looked down with come-hither smiles…only my mother’s face, outlined by the moon. Poised behind Jimmy.

  The last thing I heard before I lost consciousness was the explosion of gunfire. My last thought asked forgiveness of both families.

  * * *

  “Hang in there, baby girl.”

  My mother’s voice reached me through a tunnel of static in my head. My lungs were functioning and fighting for air. My chest heaved and I coughed with life.

  “Hang in there,” she said. “Help’s on the way.”

  I opened my eyes. My vision cleared enough for me to see her wet face, upside down over me. She was cradling my head in her lap like a baby.

  My re-emergence to the living brought with it the exploding pain in my side. I screamed out and my back buckled from the icy water churning against the searing wound. In the distance, I heard sirens.

  “They’re almost here,” she said. “They’re almost here.” She started to rock and kept whispering her new mantra.

  I tried to lift my head from her lap, but it was too heavy. I sensed Jimmy Slade’s dead body close to mine. I closed my eyes and squeezed them tight. That didn’t prevent the spill of warm tears.

  “I’m so sorry, mom.” My voice was raspy.

  “Shhhhh.”

  “I should have listened to you,” I said.

  The dueling police and ambulance sirens came to a halt behind me. A crowd of neighbors started gathering on the beach. The faces of the young paramedics swarmed into my view. I let them take over my life. Flashing lights reflected off their serious faces and a helicopter whirled above and spotted us with a searchlight.

  As the paramedics moved me onto the gurney, my mother announced she was riding with me in the ambulance. The police announced they didn’t think so. They needed to speak with her about a dead body, prone on the beach, with a bullet in its back.

  The paramedics slid me into the waiting Medi-van equipped with technology hanging from every conceivable nook and cranny. My mother leaned in over me. Taking my hands, she kissed my fingers.

  “I’ll come as soon as I can,” she said. “Right now, I have to speak with Buena Del Mar’s finest.”

  “I see a chapter in here, somewhere,” I said.

  “You know what, Gracie?” She whispered and gave me a wink. “Just remember, not everything that qualifies as fiction, is fiction.”

  ###

  About the author:

  M. Catherine Berg is a contemporary writer of murder mystery. Berg has a history in the world of TV promotional advertising and TV syndication. In the fall of 2012 she is releasing her first Gracie Wentworth novel Discovering April. In Discovering April, Gracie finds herself entangled with show business big-shots, game show legends, dark family secrets and the nasty underbelly of Hollywood life.

  You can learn more about M. Catherine Berg at https:\www.mcatherineberg.com.