“Got it,” I said.
“They both knew from an early age what they wanted to do in life and they went after their goals with a vengeance. Poppy was Emmie’s midlife surprise. Sherman would be the first to tell you they hadn’t planned on a third child. As a result, Poppy had it tougher than the other two. The way he tells it, the older girls were self-motivated and they competed to see which one of them could outshine the other. Poppy came along eight years later and got the short end of the stick. I guess there was only so much brainpower to go around. He and Emmie watched her struggle through elementary school and junior high. It was painful, but there wasn’t much they could do to help. Tutors, of course, and summer school was inevitable since she usually fell short in at least one class during the academic year. She may have a learning disability that was never diagnosed.”
“Her sisters went to Climp?”
“Oh, yes. No question about that. Sherman and Emmie argued about sending Poppy, but she always felt she was being slighted, so they didn’t dare break the tradition when it came to her. She should have done well at Climp. Small class sizes, a teaching staff that was top drawer. It’s not like she didn’t try. She just couldn’t keep up. In my opinion, though no one ever asks of course, Poppy’s a spoiled brat. She’s terribly defensive and she’s so glum.”
I laughed at the unexpected term. “Glum?”
“Always down at the mouth. Nothing goes right for her. She has the same competitive streak as her older sisters, but while they’re striving to get ahead, using their energy to accomplish something in the world, Poppy’s focus is on them. Whatever they have, she feels she should have the same thing, earned or otherwise.”
“Do you get along with her?”
“Not at all. I’m surprised you’d ask. If I liked the girl, I wouldn’t be saying half the things I’ve said. She takes shameless advantage of her father, which means that he and I do battle every time something comes up. Not that I have much say in the matter. In some ways, I have her best interests at heart; more so than he does, at any rate. He doesn’t see it that way. He’s busy trying to assuage his guilt because she’s had such a hard time in life. In my view, she brings her problems on herself, but she’s convinced it’s all a conspiracy. Half the time she persuades him it’s his fault.”
“Do you know Sloan’s mother? I’m wondering how she fared in all of this.”
“I know her, but not well. She had a drinking problem in those days, but after Sloan was killed, she never touched another drop. That’s the only good that’s ever come out of it.”
“I’ve been thinking I should talk to her, but I don’t want to intrude.”
“No worries on that score. Margaret isn’t shy when it comes to Sloan. Her daughter is all she talks about.”
“Are there other children?”
“Two boys from Paul Seay’s first marriage. Both are still around as far as I know. A year after Sloan died, Margaret and Paul divorced. The boys were of an age where they needed their father’s influence, so they elected to live with him. I don’t know what his first wife thought about it, but apparently, there was no bad blood. The older one in particular adored Sloan. I understand he looks after Margaret, who really doesn’t have any other friends.
“Tell her you’re writing an article. She’s always phoning journalists, trying to keep the story in the public eye. She’s convinced that one of these days someone will read about Sloan’s death and blow the whistle on Austin Brown, wherever he might be.”
I pumped her for information for as long as I dared and then returned to my car with Poppy’s address in hand. I took the back way out of Horton Ravine, using the road that ran along the bluff and then exited through the rear gates. From there, I followed the road down the hill and on to Ludlow Beach. Santa Teresa City College was planted on the hillside opposite, with imposing views of the Pacific Ocean. I drove another block and a half, made a left turn, and then a right onto her street.
Poppy lived in a small board-and-batten cottage, one of eight forming a U-shape that enclosed a gracious swath of lawn. There were a number of these small rental properties in Santa Teresa—mini-communities that shared common ground. Though small, each of the structures boasted two bedrooms, a living room with a working fireplace, a kitchen, and one bathroom. The floors were hardwood and there were shutters at the windows, which also sported flower boxes planted with an array of marigolds. I knew all of this because one of the units was available to rent and the sign posted out front detailed the amenities.
Poppy’s cottage was one of three to the right of the grass courtyard. I knocked at her door.
A neighbor peered out of her window, which looked out onto Poppy’s porch. “She’s not here,” the woman yelled through the glass.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
The woman shook her index finger to indicate no without further explanation. I stood there for a moment, debating my options. If I thought Poppy was returning soon, I’d wait for her, but it was coming up on noon and I wanted to feel I’d been productive. I decided against leaving her a note. There was no way to spell out my questions without meeting her face-to-face, and as was usually the case, I didn’t want her forewarned. Nothing worse than giving people time enough to organize their stories. Meanwhile, the auto repair shop where Troy was employed was only seven blocks away, so I returned to my car and headed in that direction.
Better Brand Auto Repair was located in a narrow building that had enjoyed a former life as a service station. Out in front, where the gasoline pumps had been planted, there was a covered parking pad that once sheltered patrons who’d pulled in to fill the tanks on their Model As. The current business specialized in luxury imports: Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Nissan, Volvo. KEEP THE HORSES RUNNING UNDER YOUR HOOD said a separate sign board. I opened the door and went in.
Two adjoining offices occupied the rooms to my left, with space enough for a narrow counter that separated the reception area from the two-person bay that housed two desks, two rolling chairs, phones, a printer, an adding machine, files, and bookcases lined with manuals. On the near side of the counter, there were two chairs, a coffee machine, and a water dispenser with paper cups. The one woman working was middle-aged, businesslike, and brisk without being unfriendly. Her hair was a complicated arrangement of braids and curls, held in place with little metal clips shaped like butterflies. On one wrist, she wore a collection of stray rubber bands.
I said, “Hi. I’m looking for Troy.”
“He took an early lunch.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”