Trust Me by Earl Javorsky

daughter?”
    “Nancy.”
    There was a long pause. Then the voice at the other end of the line simply said, “Yeah. One thing. No way Nancy jumped. No way. That’s all I got. Don’t call again.” Click. End of first call. And not a very fruitful call at that. He made a notation—“sisters”—next to Nancy Mills’ name, and reflected on the father’s reaction. He wondered if it was standard fare for parents to deny the possibility of their children being suicide victims. Then he pondered the phrase “suicide victim.” Why were they called victims? Why not “suicide perpetrators”?
    He cut short the possibility of a prolonged meditation on personal responsibility and dialed the next entry. The first three digits identified it as a Pacific Palisades number. An answering machine picked up—“Hi, you’ve reached the Fullertons; we’re not available right now but please leave a message at the tone.” Ron started to leave a message but was interrupted by a woman saying, “Hold on, hold on, just let me turn this damn thing off.” There was a small click as the answering device cut out, and then the woman came back on. “Yes, who is it?”
    He introduced himself and asked if they could talk briefly about her daughter.
    “Well,” the woman hesitated, “she was a good girl. She had some problems but I still don’t believe she took her own life. Are you writing a story?”
    “No,” he said, “I’m trying to put together a puzzle.”
    “What do you mean, a puzzle? And how can I help?” Something in the woman’s voice made him decide to be candid with her.
    “I think,” he told her, “that there’s more here than meets the eye.”
    “So do I,” the woman said. “I was very dissatisfied with what the police had to say.”
    “May I come out and speak to you in person?” He knew from experience that more would be revealed in a face-to-face conversation than over the phone.
    She replied, “Yes, by all means,” and told him today would be fine and how to get to her house.
    One more number to call, then he would drive out to Pacific Palisades. On the way back, he planned to stop at St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica and see if anyone had anything to say about nurse Nancy Mills.
    He dialed the last number, the family of Laura Hunsaker in Woodland Hills. She was the one that a hiker had found in a ravine in Idyllwild. The one with the same drug in her system as Marilyn Fenner.
    His call went to voice mail. He left his name and number and stated the reason for his call, then hung up and made a note to locate Marilyn Fenner’s family.
    ⍫
    He had always liked the Palisades. It was neat and clean, with expensive homes and broad, manicured lawns. The streets were wide and lined with trees. Too bad the whole country can’t live like this, he thought.
    The Fullertons lived in a ranch-style home on a corner lot just off Sunset Boulevard. A new Mercedes was parked in the driveway, which was lined with immaculately kept roses. Mrs. Fullerton came out to greet him as he stepped out of the Land Rover. She was a pretty woman of about fifty, hair pulled straight back in a ponytail, in jeans and a tank top. Her arms were slender and tanned. She pulled off a gardening glove and shook his hand.
    “Hi, I’m Ann Fullerton.” She led him into the house. Inside, there was a smartness about the decor which matched Ann Fullerton perfectly. In the kitchen, she handed him a tray with a pitcher of ice tea and some cheese and crackers and said, “Let’s go out in back.”
    They sat at a patio table on a huge redwood deck that overlooked a swimming pool and, beyond, a lawn surrounded by fruit trees and a profusion of flowers. Ann Fullerton poured the ice teas and settled back in her chair.
    “It’s been a year and a half since we lost Linda,” she said, “and I still think she’s going to pop into the house any time now. Like that creepy old story about the hunting party.”
    “Did she seem particularly troubled