The keep, p.5
The Keep, page 5
I'm not making excuses, just explaining. I feel like you deserve the whole story, since you have skin in the game.
The fact is, one year after the first incident I was in debt up to my eyeballs, and it was the church's fault. My boss at the tool and die shop was an elder. No way I was moving up in that company. I was fraying. Coming unraveled. I wanted to leave Lawrenceburg, start over somewhere nobody knew me, but I had nothing to start over with.
I was stuck. I couldn't atone for my past sins. Nothing I ever did was ever going to be good enough. The church had no intention of letting me off the hook even if I repaid what I'd taken. In fact, I could tell it was as if they now felt justified about accusing me four years ago, like somehow their mistake was my fault.
I realized right then and there my responsibility was to my family. Family are the people who have your back. Family are the ones who bail you out. Not those jerks.
I decided to do what I should have done a long time ago. Leave. I'm starting over with the money you gave me, Booker, but I'm going to pay you back with interest. You're family, and you deserve it.
As for Carla and the kids, I can only say I believe they're better off without me. They shouldn't have to pay the price for the prejudice against me in Lawrenceburg. Her daddy will take care of them better than I can right now. If you talk to her, tell her she needs to forget me and move on. It's for the best.
I keep thinking about all those great hiking trips we took the past couple of years, Whiting Ranch, Top of the World, Black Star. Those were good times, bro. When all this settles, we’ll do it again.
* * *
Love,
Joe
MOLLY: It sounds like Joe was falsely accused of stealing from his church and even though he was exonerated, his reputation was ruined. He claims the event created a cascade of mud he just couldn’t dig himself out of.
I’ve heard of this happening to people who were labeled sex offenders because they had a seventeen-year-old girlfriend when they were nineteen. Or even felons who served their time and turned over a new leaf but were never able to have their records expunged.
So, what do you think about Joe? Do you feel sorry for him? Or do you think he’s just scamming Booker? Let me know your thoughts in the Facebook Group.
(cue music)
VO: If you enjoyed this episode, please leave us a five-star review on your favorite podcast service—it really helps. Murders Under the Sun is edited by Jim Wilbourne, theme music is by Eclectic Blends, and I’m your host, Molly Shure.
Part Three
MURDERS UNDER THE SUN
SEASON FIVE; EPISODE TWO
* * *
MOLLY: Welcome back to Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.
When we left Honey last week, she was home alone and the dog was going ballistic at the windows—a very scary situation. We ended the episode with the first of Joe’s emails, and I posed the question: Is Joe a victim of circumstance or a con artist?
Your responses were varied, as usual. And, as usual, most of you put a lot of thought into your answers. I’ll give the listeners who haven’t joined the group the synopsis.
Joe’s use of the Sisyphus myth resonated with many of you. Thanks to those who shared their painful stories of being falsely accused. My heart goes out to you, but it also ached for those who admitted making mistakes they were never fully able to atone for. Which of us wouldn’t love a do-over in some area of our lives?
However, having said all that, none of you approved of Joe taking off with Booker’s money. This was a terrible move, especially if he was trying to repair his reputation. It made several of you believe he might not have been as innocent as he claimed. We’ll be learning more about Joe as the season progresses, so we shall see if your opinions are justified.
Speaking of do-overs, I’ve been wondering when or if to bring up the missing CS-Fullerton students we’ve been talking about between episodes of each season.
For those who are new to the podcast, the longtime listeners and I have become embroiled in a mystery behind the Murders Under the Sun mysteries. To catch you up, when I was in college at Cal State-Fullerton my roommate, Melissa Shilling, went out to party one evening and never came back. The police investigated but never found her. She joined the hundreds of thousands of people on the US missing persons database.
I told listeners the tale because I was asked why I became a crime journalist, and that’s the reason. The event rocked my world.
I expected a compassionate reaction. I know you guys by now. What I hadn’t expected was for the listening audience to actually get involved in my personal mystery, but you did.
The mother of another student, Raphael Jimenez, who disappeared from CS Fullerton at the same time as Mellisa, emailed me. The cousin of Ariana Blackstone, a girl who also went missing at that time, emailed. People who knew people who were familiar with these stories, people who’d been to the last place Melissa was seen, even people retired from law enforcement commented in the group.
Reluctantly, I looked at the information—the coincidences—that were piling up, and I began to ask questions. At first, only to myself, but ultimately, I contacted the families of the missing students.
This is a good time to introduce you to Abby, my partner in crime. Initially, I reached out with a request to interview her for Season Three of the podcast. It turned out that Abby, a writer, was already exploring the connections between the crimes I planned to talk about on the podcast. We’ve joined journalistic forces and just in time. She’s helping me look into Melissa’s disappearance along with assisting on Murders Under the Sun.
If you haven’t already heard Abby’s story, check out Season Three--The Garden. She went through a harrowing experience and, like all the women I’ve interviewed in this series, came out stronger for it.
Together, we’ve discovered some interesting facts about Melissa and the other missing students. I won’t go over them all right now. Let’s just suffice it to say that it looks as though the investigation of those cases is getting a do-over. I’ll do my best to fill in the backstory as I present new information.
However, this show is about Honey’s story. Let’s pick up where we left off last episode.
Honey raced around the house scooping up magazines, shoes, sweaters, and jackets. She’d had a difficult time falling asleep last night thanks to Fury’s hysteria. Consequently, she’d overslept.
Why was she such a slob when Booker was gone? Maybe it was rebellion. He was so neat she felt under pressure. It was one of the only things they'd ever fought about, until recently.
Of course, now they fought about Joe. Well, not directly. He'd asked her to let it go, forgive him. He'd acknowledged he should have talked to her about it before he'd written the check. She'd agreed, and she didn't bring it up anymore. Instead, she worked.
In the past when Booker got home after a stint at the station, she'd have taken the morning off, made him a big breakfast or lunch. Maybe they'd pop upstairs for a little dessert afterward, but no more. She was too busy. Was that rebellion too? Could be, but she didn't have time to analyze it.
After dumping a load of magazines on the table in her home office and running the castoff clothing up to her side of the bedroom closet, she headed outside. She had an appointment with Peter at the gallery at noon and wanted to open the shop for a few hours first.
Booker pulled into the driveway before she reached her car. She tightened her lips in annoyance. Now she'd be late. Shame quickly followed that thought. Annoyance? Really? That was her reaction when her husband arrived home after three days away? She tacked on a smile and tried to make it genuine. "Hey there."
He got out of his car and closed the door, his movements languid. His shoulders sloped. There were dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted.
"Was there a fire?" she asked, her shame increasing.
"Nothing big. Grease fire in a kitchen yesterday. Couple of false alarms and a heart attack the day before. Pretty quiet."
"Why. . ." She was going to ask him why he looked so drawn, but thought better of it. She knew the situation with Joe was wearing on him, and she didn't have time to get into a big conversation.
"Why?" he queried.
"Nothing." She put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a kiss. "There's cold cuts in the fridge. I can't cook. I've got to open Sweeter."
"You need to hire somebody to replace Willow." Booker sounded like a petulant child.
"Hm," was all she said. She clicked open the van door with her key fob, which reminded her of using a remote, which reminded her of the story on the news Monday night. "Oh." She pivoted. "I heard the body we found was a man."
He nodded, a slow laborious movement as if his head weighed more than it usually did. "Yeah. They don't know who he is yet. They're checking the missing persons database. They'll release a sketch when the artist is done, see if anybody knows him."
"Do they know how he died?" Honey wanted to put her horrible imaginings to rest. Maybe the death was awful, maybe it wasn't, but not knowing was the worst.
"Head injury, I believe."
Honey felt a trickle of relief. It might not be murder after all. "Could he have fallen?"
"No. He was hit. Probably a rock. There are plenty of them up there."
The relief dried up, replaced by something cold. Honey had stood on the spot where a man was murdered, walked where his killer had walked.
Booker covered a yawn with one of his large hands.
"Were you up all night?" She didn't think murder was all that boring.
"The grease fire was called in at ten-thirty. By the time we put it out, got back to the station, and cleaned up our gear it was at least one. Then I couldn't sleep. You know how it is when your adrenaline is pumping. I couldn't shut it down. I ended up watching old movies until three."
Honey could relate. The past couple of nights hadn't been much better for her. Fury had been restless, patrolling the house and snarling at the dark windows. "Why don't you take a nap?" Booker hugged her and ambled toward the front door reminding her of a bear heading to his lair to hibernate.
The shop was blissfully quiet. Honey caught up on all her paperwork. At noon, she put an "Out to Lunch" sign on the door, set its paper clock for one-thirty, and headed to Laguna Beach. When she crested the hill on Crown Valley Parkway and saw the sun sparkling on the ocean and white puffs of clouds floating on the crisp air, her spirits lifted. She was suddenly very glad to be alive.
Perhaps it was seeing the face of death, well, the foot of death anyway, that brought on the feeling. She'd been so focused on Joe and the money she'd forgotten all she had to be thankful for. She'd spent too much time peering into the dark looking for lost things and not enough time enjoying everything the sun shone on.
Honey was a perfectionist, although few would guess it. Those who didn't know her well looked at her messy house and assumed her brain looked the same. It didn't.
She carefully created and followed her own recipes. Cooking was more than an art, it was the science of salt, fat, and acid. She considered baking to be the oldest form of chemistry. Although the rest of her home was disorganized, the tools of her trade were not. Meal planning was an orderly event carried out with great attention to detail. Nothing drove her crazier than to stand at the counter, all ready to cook and discover she was missing an ingredient.
That's how she'd been feeling lately—like she was missing an ingredient. It wasn't the money, although that bothered her. It wasn't that Joe had disappeared, and no one knew where he'd gone. It was, she now realized, that her control had slipped.
Booker took control away from her when he gave their savings to Joe without asking. According to Dr. Hillary, Honey's body was out of control. And, she had to admit, her eating habits had spun out of control as well. Enough was enough. She might not be able to replace every missing ingredient, but she could create a new recipe. It was time to regain control of her life.
Her Pollyanna mood followed her into Nightshade, then died a sudden death. Things hidden in the dark should be the tagline for Peter's gallery. Most of his paintings were pleasant enough at first glance, but second, third, and fourth glances revealed things she wished she hadn't seen. Rosie, who was closer to Peter than Honey was, described the gallery as “The Nightmare on Coast Highway.”
She entered through the rear door, which led to a large room Peter used as his office, and tried not to look at the paintings leaning against the walls. "Peter." She called out to him instead of wandering through the gallery.
"Coming." His voice traveled from the showroom. A moment later, he appeared. Peter was small and pale, his pallor emphasized by the shades of black and charcoal gray he always wore. Eric, Rosie's husband, was convinced he was a vampire.
"I've procured a repast." He spread his hands to emphasize the sandwiches and salads set out on the long table between them. "It's nothing like the fare you create, but we mere mortals do what we can."
"It looks great." It did. Honey realized she'd skipped breakfast again. They sat, and Peter handed her a paper plate. She helped herself to half a turkey sandwich even though she wanted the Italian, then rewarded herself for her virtuousness with a large scoop of potato salad. "Tell me about the art show. Do you have a theme in mind?"
Peter launched into an explanation of the new artist's work. As he spoke, Honey had visions of bloody meats; fish and fowl served with their heads; and chocolate-covered insects for dessert. He wrapped up his monologue with, "Tex-Mex, maybe? What do you think?" Nothing about what he'd described said Tex-Mex to Honey. "Marco hides bodies and, of course, skulls in every piece of art."
"Of course," Honey said around a bite of sandwich.
"I know it's the wrong time of year for Dia de Los Muertos, but the theme fits. Marco's largest work is a desert scene, sort of a Breaking Bad thing. A dead drug dealer behind a cactus."
A light bulb clicked on in Honey's mind. "Oh, good idea." It certainly was better than what she'd imagined.
"I ordered a bull's skull complete with horns. We could use it for a centerpiece."
"I like that. How about we serve an assortment of tamales? I could do savory and sweet."
Peter clapped his hands together. "I love it. I'm so over taco bars."
They finished planning, and Honey looked at her watch. It was one-fifteen. She pushed her chair away from the table. "I have plenty to work with. I'll run recipes by you through email, but call me if you have more ideas."
"Wonderful. One more thing, a buffet table is fine, but I'd like to have at least one server moving through the guests with finger foods and drinks. Can your lovely daughter come?"
Willow had helped Honey out at another gallery's Christmas party last year. Peter had been in attendance and was obviously impressed by her. "I don't think so. She's living and working in San Diego now. She couldn't make it in time. Not with traffic."
"Too bad." Peter's mouth turned down, but only for a second. He smiled as quickly as he'd frowned. "I'm sure you can find someone."
Honey said she would try and left. Her mind churned through possible candidates all the way to the shop. Everyone she thought of was either too inexperienced, or too expensive, or didn't live close enough for a Friday night party.
The image of the young blonde from the food kitchen balancing plates along one arm popped into her mind. Angela. If the girl was eating at the soup kitchen, she must need cash. But Honey didn't know anything about her. Nothing other than that she moved like a pro and wasn't hard on the eyes. Peter would be thrilled to have a walking, talking objet d'art serving his guests.
Honey could tell Friar Philip knew more about the three young people than he'd been willing to share. Perhaps he'd also know how to get in touch with the girl and if it would be a good idea to hire her. Honey decided to call him as soon as she returned to the shop.
5.2.2
By the time she closed up Sweeter for the evening, Honey was humming to herself. It had been a good day. She'd resolved Lisa-Liza's menu. She'd sold three casserole dishes, five of those new pressure cookers everybody and their brother wanted these days, and an entire seven-piece set of stainless-steel cookware.
Friar Philip thought Angela would be an excellent choice for Peter's party. He assured Honey that Angela had arrived in her current situation through no fault of her own. He'd contacted the girl as soon as they’d hung up the phone, then called back to say she'd be in for an interview the next day. Things were coming together, even without Willow.
Honey was in such a good mood she made a detour to a fancy butcher shop and bought an overpriced piece of salmon for Booker's dinner. He loved her blackened fish. Then she made another stop for vegetables.
She pushed open the front door with a hip—her arms filled with bags—and called his name, but the house was dark. Fury was the only one to greet her. "Hey, baby." Honey high-stepped her way around the dog, walked into the dim kitchen, and deposited her bags on the counter. "Booker," she called again.
His pickup was in the driveway, so he had to be home. He couldn't still be asleep, could he? She climbed the stairs to their bedroom, turning on lights as she went. She paused with her hand on the bedroom switch. If he was sleeping, she wasn't sure she wanted to wake him. Her eyes adjusted to her surroundings, and she could see that the bed was empty.
She trotted down the stairs, a tickle of anxiety traveling with her. She had no reason to be anxious. Booker was an adult. He probably took a walk, but then why hadn’t he taken Fury? Maybe he was at the neighbor’s. Magda, the widow across the street, had a longer honey-do list for him than Honey did. She reassured herself with these words, but unfortunately her mind and her body weren't on speaking terms these days. The Leg injected itself into her mental images. Her good mood was slipping away.
