J Is for Judgment

  There was a time, long before the earth's folding caused the mountains to buckle upward, when the Perdido basin was a hundred miles long and much of California was a lowland covered by vast Eocene seas. Back then this whole region was under water as far as the Arizona border. The petroleum deposits were actually derived from marine organisms, the sediment, in places, nearly thirteen thousand feet thick. There are times when I feel the hairs rising up along my arms at the vision of a world so wildly different from ours. I imagine the changes, millions of years speeded up like time-lapse photography, in which the land heaves and snaps, thrusting, plunging, and shifting in a thunderous convulsion.

  I glanced out at the horizon. Twenty-four of the thirty-two platforms along the California coast are near Santa Teresa and Perdido counties, nine of them within three miles of shore. I'd heard the dispute about whether those old platforms could withstand a big 7.0-magnitude trembler. The experts were divided. On one side of the debate were the geologists and representatives of the state Seismic Safety Commission, who kept pointing out that the oldest off-shore oil platforms were built between 1958 and 1969 before the petroleum industry adopted uniform design codes. Reassuring us of our comfort and security were spokesmen for the oil companies who owned the rigs. Gosh, it was baffling. I tried to picture the effect: all those rigs collapsing, oil spewing into the ocean in a gathering storm of black. I thought about the current contamination of beaches, raw sewage spilling into oceans and streams, the hole in the ozone, forests being stripped, the toxic-waste dumps, the merry plunder of mankind added to the drought and the famine that nature dishes up annually as a matter of course. It's hard to know what's actually going to get us first. Sometimes I think we should just blow the whole planet and get it over with. It's the suspense that's killing me.

  I passed a stretch of state beach and rounded the point, sliding into the town of Perdido from its western-most edge. I took the first Perdido off ramp, cruising through the downtown business district while I got my bearings. The wide main street was edged with diagonal head-in parking-lots of pickup trucks and recreational vehicles in evidence. A convertible proceeded slowly down the street behind me with its car radio booming. The combination of brass instruments and thunderous bass reminded me of the thumping passage of a Fourth of July parade. The windows on every other business seemed to be decked with handsome canvas awnings, and I wondered if the mayor had a brother-in-law in the business.

  The housing tract where Dana Jaffe now lived was probably developed in the seventies when Perdido enjoyed a brief real estate boom. The house itself was a story and a half, charcoal-gray stucco with white wood trim. Most of the homes in the neighborhood had three and four vehicles parked in the driveways, suggesting a population more dense than the "single-family residential" zoning implied. I pulled into the drive behind a late-model Honda.

  Twilight was deepening. Zinnias and marigolds had been planted in clusters along the walk. In the dim illumination from an ornamental fixture, I could see that the shrubs had been neatly trimmed, the grass mowed, and some effort made to distinguish the house from its mirror-image neighbors. Trellising had been added along the fence line. The honeysuckle vines trained up the latticework lent at least the illusion of privacy, perfuming the air with incredible sweetness. As I rang the bell, I extracted a business card from the depths of my handbag. The front porch was stacked high with moving cartons, all packed and sealed. I wondered where she was headed.

  After a pause, Dana Jaffe answered the door with a telephone receiver tucked in the crook of her neck. She'd toted the instrument across the room, trailing twenty-five feet of cord. She was the kind of woman I've always found intimidating, with her honey-colored hair, her smoothly sculpted cheekbones, her gaze cool and level. She had a straight, narrow nose, a strong chin, and a slight overbite. A glint of very white teeth peeped out from full lips that, at rest, wouldn't quite close. She put the face of the receiver against her chest, muffling our conversation for the person on the other end. "Yes?"

  I held out my card so she could read my name. "I'd like to talk to you."

  She glanced at the card with a little frown of puzzlement before she handed it back. She held up an index finger, making an apologetic face as she gestured me in. I crossed the threshold and stepped into the living room just ahead of her, my gaze following the path of the telephone cord into a dining room that had been converted into office space. Apparently she did some kind of wedding consulting. I could see bridal magazines stacked everywhere. A bulletin board that hung above the desk was covered with photographs, sample invitations, illustrations of wedding bouquets, and articles about honeymoon cruises. A schedule with fifteen to twenty names and dates indicated upcoming nuptials that she needed to keep abreast of. The carpeting was white shag, the couch and chairs upholstered in steel blue canvas, with throw pillows in off-white and seafoam green. Aside from a cluster of family photographs in antique silver frames, there were l~, no knickknacks. The room was interspersed with a variety of glossy house plants, big healthy specimens that I seemed to saturate the air with oxygen. This was fortunate given all the noxious cigarette smoke in the air.

  The furnishings were handsome, probably inexpensive knockoffs of designer brands. Dana Jaffe was pencil thin, wearing tight, faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, tennis shoes without socks.

  When I wear the same outfit, it looks like I'm all set to change the oil in my car. On her, the outfit had a careless elegance. She had her hair pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck, tied with a scarf. I could see now that the blond was laced with silver, but the effect was artless, as if she were confident the aging process would only add interest to a face already honed and chiseled.

  The overbite made her mouth seem pouty and probably kept her from being labeled "beautiful," whatever that I consists of. She would be relegated to categories like "interesting" or "attractive," though personally I'd have killed for a face like hers, strong and arresting, with a flawless complexion.

  She picked up the cigarette she'd left in the ashtray, dragging on it deeply as she went on with her conversation. "I don't think you'll be happy with that," she was saying. "Well, the style's not going to be flattering. You told me Corey's cousin was on the hefty side... Okay, a blimp. That's exactly what I'm talking about. You don't want to put a peplum on a blimp... A full skirt... Uh-hun, right. That's going to minimize heavy legs and hips... No, no, no. I'm not talking about bulky fullness I understand. Maybe something with a slightly dropped waist. I think we should find a dress with a shaped neckline, too, because that's going to pull the eye upward. Do you understand what I'm saying?... Uhm-hmmm... Well, why don't I go through my books here and I'll come up with some suggestions. You might have Corey pick up a couple of brides magazines from the supermarket. We can talk to- morrow... Okay... All right, fine. I'll call you back... You're entirely welcome... You too."

  She replaced the receiver and gave the telephone cord a little looping flap, pulling the length of it toward her. She extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray on her desk and then moved into the living room, smoke still trailing from her mouth. I took a quick moment to scan the room. In the small slice of family room that I could see, there were miscellaneous items of baby paraphernalia: a playpen, a high chair, a wind-up swing guaranteed to put an infant to sleep if it didn't generate a lot of puking first. "You'd never guess I'm a grandma," she said with irony when she caught my eye.

  I had placed my business card on the coffee table, and I saw her glance at it again with curiosity. I tucked in a hasty question before she had a chance to quiz me. "Are you moving? I saw the boxes on the porch. It looks like you're all set."

  "Not me. My son and his wife. They've just bought a little house." She leaned over and picked up the card. "Excuse me, I'd like to know what this is about. If it has to do with Brian, you'll need to talk to his attorney. I'm not at liberty to discuss his situation."

  "This is not about Brian. It's about Wendell."

  Her gaze bec
ame fixed. "Have a seat," she said, indicating a nearby chair. She sat down on the edge of the couch, pulling an ashtray in closer to her. She lit another cigarette, her movements brisk, dragging deeply as she arranged both her lighter and the pack of Eve l00's on the table in front of her. "Were you acquainted with him?"

  "Not at all," I said. I perched on a chrome-and-gray-leather director's chair that squawked beneath my weight. Sounded like I'd made a rude butt noise as a joke.

  She blew two streams of smoke from her nose. "Because he's dead, you know. He's been gone for years. He got into trouble and he killed himself."

  "That's why I'm here. Last week, the California Fidelity agent who sold Wendell his life insurance policy..."

  "Dick What's-his-name... Mills."

  "That's correct. Mr. Mills was vacationing in a little Mexican resort and spotted Wendell in a bar."

  I She burst out laughing. "Oh, sure, right."

  I stirred uncomfortably. "It's true."

  She cut the power on the smile by half. "Don't be silly. What are we talking here, a séance or something? Wendell's dead, my dear."

  "As I understand it, Dick Mills did quite a bit of business with him. I gather he knew Wendell well enough to make the initial 10. I'm handling the follow-up."

  She continued to smile, but it was all form and no content. She blinked at me with interest. "He actually talked to him? You'll have to forgive my skepticism, but I'm having a problem with this. The two of them had a conversation?"

  I shook my head. "Dick was on his way to the airport at the time, and he didn't want Wendell to catch sight of him. As soon he got home, he called one of the CF vice-presidents, who turned around and hired me to fly down there. At this point, the identification isn't positive, but the chances are good. It looks like he's not only alive, but headed back to the area."

  "I don't believe it. There's been some mistake." Her tone was emphatic, but her expression suggested she was waiting for the punch line, a half smile flickering. I wondered how many times she'd played the scene in her head. Some police detective or an FBI agent sitting in her living room, giving her the news that Wendell was alive and well... or that his body had finally been recovered. She'd probably lost track of what she wanted to hear. I could see her struggle with a number of conflicting attitudes, most of which were bad.

  Agitated, she took a drag of her cigarette and then blew out a mouthful of smoke, her mouth curling up in a parody of mirth as she tried on a new reaction. "Let me hazard a guess here. I'll bet there's money involved. A little payoff, is that it?"

  "Why would I do that?" I asked.

  "What's the point, then? Why tell me about it? I couldn't care less."

  "I was hoping you'd let me know if Wendell tried to get in touch."

  "You think Wendell would try to get in touch with me? This is dumb. Don't be ridiculous."

  "I don't know what to tell you, Mrs. Jaffe. I can understand how you feel..."

  "What are you talking about? The man is dead! Don't you get it? He turned out to be a con artist, a common crook. I've had trouble enough dealing with all the people he cheated. You're not going to turn around now and tell me he's still out there," she snapped.

  "We think he faked his own death, probably to avoid prosecution for fraud and grand theft." I reached for my handbag. "I have a picture if you want to see him. This was done by a police artist. It's not exact, but it's close. I saw him myself." I pulled out the photocopy of the picture, unfolded the paper, and passed it over to her.

  She studied it with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. "This isn't Wendell. This looks nothing like him." She tossed it back toward the table. The paper sailed off the edge like an airplane taking off. "I thought they did these with computers. What's the matter? Are the cops here too cheap?" She snatched up my business card again and read my name. I could see that her hand had begun to shake. "Look, Ms. Millhone. Maybe I should explain something. Wendell put me through hell. Whether he's dead or alive is immaterial from my perspective. You want to know why?"

  I could see she was working herself into a snit.

  "I understand you had him declared dead," I ventured.

  "That's right. You got it. Very good," she said. "I've collected his life insurance, that's how dead he is. This is over and done. Finito, you savvy? I'm getting on with my life. You understand what I'm saying? I'm not interested in Wendell one way or the other. I've got other problems I'm coping with at the moment, and as far as I'm concerned –"

  The telephone began to ring and she glanced back with annoyance. "The machine will pick up."

  The machine clicked in, and Dana intoned the standard advice about a name, telephone number, and a message. Without even thinking about it, we both turned to listen. "Please wait for the beep," Dana's recorded voice admonished. We paused dutifully, waiting for the beep.

  I could hear a woman using the artificial message-giving voice that machines inspire. "Hello, Dana. This is Miriam Salazar. Your name was given to me by Judith Prancer as a bridal consultant. My daughter, Angela, is getting married next April, and I just thought we should have a preliminary conversation. I'd appreciate a call back. Thanks." She left her telephone number.

  Dana smoothed her hair back, checking the scarf at the nape of her neck. "Jesus, this has been a crazy summer," she commented idly. "I've had two and three weddings every weekend, plus I'm getting ready for a midsummer bridal fair."

  I stared at her, saying nothing. Like many people, she was capable of delivering informational asides while in the midst of a highly charged emotional conversation. I hardly knew where to take the matter next. Wait until she figured out that California Fidelity was going to reclaim the insurance money if Wendell showed up in the flesh.

  I shouldn't even have allowed the thought to enter my head, because the minute it occurred to me she seemed to read my mind.

  "Oh, wait. Don't tell me. I just collected half a million bucks. I hope the insurance company doesn't think I'm going to give the money back."

  "You'd have to talk to them about that. Generally, they don't pay death benefits if a guy's not really dead. They're kind of cranky that way."

  "Now just a goddamn minute. If he's alive-which I'm not buying for a minute-but if it turned out he was, it's hardly my responsibility."

  "Well, it certainly isn't theirs."

  "I've waited years for that money. I'd be dead broke without it. You don't understand the kind of struggle I've been through. I've had two boys to raise with no help from anyone."

  "You'd probably be smart to talk to an attorney," I said.

  "An attorney? What for? I didn't do anything. I've suffered enough because of Wendell goddamn Jaffe, and if you think for one minute I'm giving the money back, you're crazy. You want to collect, you'll have to get it from him."

  "Mrs. Jaffe, I don't make policy decisions for California Fidelity. All I do is investigate and file reports. I have no control over what they do –"

  "I didn't cheat," she cut in.

  "No one's accusing you of cheating."

  She cupped a hand around her ear. "Yet," she said. "Don't I hear a big fat 'yet' at the end of that sentence?"

  "What you hear me saying is take it up with them. I'm only here because I thought you should be aware of what's going on. If Wendell tries to get in touch..."

  "Jesus! Would you stop this? What earthly reason would he have to get in touch with me?"

  "Because he probably read about Brian's escapades in all the Mexican papers."

  That shut her up momentarily. She stared at me with the panicky blank look of a woman with a train bearing down the track at her and a car that won't start. Her voice dropped. "I can't deal with this. I'm sorry, but this is all nonsense as far as I'm concerned. I'll have to ask you to leave.'" She rose to her feet, and I rose at the same time.

  "Hey, Mom?" Dana jumped. Her oldest son, Michael, was coming down the stairs. He caught sight of us and paused. "Oh, sorry. I didn't know you were busy down here." He was la
nky and slim, with a dark mop of silky hair much in need of a cut. His face was narrow, nearly pretty, with large dark eyes and long lashes. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt emblazoned with a fake college decal, and high-top tennis shoes.

  Dana flashed a bright smile at him to disguise her distress. "We're just finishing. What is it, baby? Did you guys want something to eat?"

  "I thought I'd make a run. Juliet's out of cigarettes and the baby needs Pampers. I just wondered if you needed anything."

  "Actually, you might pick up some milk for breakfast. We're almost out," she replied. "Get a half gallon of low-fat and a quart of orange juice, if you would. There's some money on the kitchen table."

  "I got some," he said. "You keep that, honey. I'll get it." She moved off toward the kitchen.

  Michael continued to the bottom of the steps and snagged his jacket from the newel post where it was draped. He nodded at me shyly, perhaps mistaking me for one of his mother's bridal clients. Despite the fact that I'd been married twice, I've never had a formal wedding. The closest I'd ever come was a bride of Frankenstein outfit one Halloween when I was in the second grade. I had fangs and fake blood, and my aunt drew clumsy black stitches up and down my face. My bridal veil was affixed to my head with numerous bobby pins, most of which I'd lost by the time the evening came to an end. The dress itself was a cut-down version of a ballerina costume... some kind of Swan Lake number with an ankle-length skirt. My aunt had added sparkles, making squiggles with a tube of Elmer's glue that she sprinkled with dime-store glitter. I'd never felt so glamorous. I remember looking at myself solemnly in the mirror that night in a halo of netting, thinking it was probably the most beautiful dress I would ever own. Sure enough, I've never had anything quite like it since, though, in truth, it's not the dress so much as the feeling I miss.

  Dana came back into the living room and pressed a twenty into Michael's hand. They had a brief chat about the errand. While I waited for them to finish their business, I picked up one of the silver-framed photos. It looked like Wendell in high school, which is to say dorky-looking with a bad haircut.