Lemonade

Copyright @ shuttlepilot
All rights reserved, 2011

If life gives you lemons...

He put his half-eaten hot dog down and called his sister-in-law's house at 8 o'clock that evening. "Hi, Karen, let me speak to Terri, please. She's not answering her phone."

"Doug, she's not here right now. She left with Peter to go to the store. Her phone battery's dead, that's all. I'll have you call her as soon as I can, OK?"

"I was just worried, that's all. She didn't call, you know? If she's all right, then just tell her I love her and I'll see her Sunday evening. Thanks."

"Goodbye, Doug. I'll let her know."

The doorbell rang and he found Mrs. Kittrell standing on the dark porch. "Don't you believe in lights, Doug? A person could get hurt out here."

"What can I do for you? I'm a little busy."

"I need some help with the house. It shouldn't take too long." She stood there, waiting for him as he sighed, locked up his house and followed her across the street. "My window won't close and it's getting cold. Would you like some cake? I just baked a chocolate cake and I know you'd like a big piece."

Doug looked at the woman and then back at his own empty house. "Sure, why not? I'd like that very much."

**********

Saturday morning arrived with a shrill beep-beep-beep and he reached to turn off the forgotten alarm, knocking it off the nightstand and onto the floor. Every part of his body was sore. Mrs. Kittrell's window turned into a leaky toilet which turned into a dripping faucet which turned into a squeaky door. It was close to midnight before he got back home and for a moment, there, he suspiciously thought the woman needed something else fixed, too. She seemed to hang on his every word and hovered nearby while he did the work.

"Damn it!" He tried to reach for it without getting out of bed but it had bounced beneath the bedframe and out of reach. He pulled the covers back and went onto the floor, reaching into the dusty cavern beneath the bed. As the dust-covered clock came out, he sneezed. How many times, he wondered, had he asked Terri to vacuum under the bed. He was sure his allergies had started when she had stopped caring for the house like she used to.

Doug went into the bathroom and pulled out his Astepro. Inhaling deeply, he could feel the mist surge through his nose as he depressed it.

He got back into the empty bed, looking at her side of the bed. The pillow lay there, untouched. Her twice-a-month weekends to her sister's house had become standard practice two years earlier. There never was any explanation from her why her sudden interest in staying the weekend was so important and he had just believed it was her longing for sisterly companionship. It had, though, gotten out of hand and something needed to be done about it.

Doug spent the morning working next door with Pierce on his old car and then watched a couple of football games and USC destroyed Notre Dame, again, even though it was closer this time than in years. He sat there then and realized he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He remembered Mrs. Kittrell's chocolate cake and wished he had another piece. That woman sure knew her way around the kitchen.

Walking into his own kitchen, he opened the pantry and took out a box of pasta shells and started boiling water. Eventually, he was back in the den watching the end of another one-sided game.

He looked at the clock on his cell and called Karen again. "Well, put her on, then." Sometimes, Doug thought his sister-in-law was dense.

"She's really sick, Doug. She might even be late coming home. If she doesn't get better we'll take her to the ER."

"Well, just put the phone to her ear so I can talk a little, will you?" He was getting angry with his sister-in-law. "Karen, put her on the damn phone."

"Doug, she's dead asleep. Really..."

"Do I have to drive up there?"

"Oh, no... we'll take care of it. Really... don't worry; it's probably just a case of food poisoning or something. You'll see."

"Call me, then, when she wakes up. Is her phone charged, now?"

"Uh... the battery's dead. It won't take a charge and you'll have to get a new one. Look, my little one is crying and I've got to go. OK?"

Doug hung up; his sister-in-law was short with him, certainly not like her usual silly self, but then neither was he.

*********

Sunday evening arrived without his wife and Doug called Karen one last time.

"What do you mean, 'she's not there'? When did she leave?"

"I don't really remember... sometime this morning."

"She's not here, yet. I'm calling the police." He dialed 911 and reported his wife missing but was given the expected delay. It wasn't enough time, they said; she's not a child, they said.

Late Monday night, there was a call from them, saying they found his wife's car by chance in a chop-shop raid just before it was going to disappear into a crusher. Then came the apologies and recriminations and promises. Now, that she was officially gone. Two detectives promised to come by Tuesday morning and he took the day off from work.

**********

Alfred Jones, the lead detective, looked at Susan Phillips, his partner and then, Doug.

"When did you notice your wife was missing?" The tall, dark-haired detective had his notebook out, pen at the ready. His partner was a slightly shorter, willowy red-haired beauty and she pulled out a small, digital recorder and set it down on her laptop case.

"I called Friday night, her sister's house and Karen, that's her sister, said that she was out with Peter, that's the brother-in-law, to the store and so I said, you know, OK, tell her I love her and then I called the next day and they told me she was sick." Doug sat on the sofa, his hands held tightly together.

"Why didn't you call your wife's cell phone?" The pen was rapidly writing but Jones was watching the man's face.

"I did but there was no answer. Karen said the battery had died and they were trying to charge it up and then she said it was dead and had to be replaced."

"Does your wife visit her sister often?" The willowy red-head finally spoke, looking up from her laptop's screen.

"Why are you asking all these questions? You should be out there looking for her." Doug stood up and paced the floor. He walked to the front windows and looked out onto the street and then to Mrs. Kittrell's house.

"Mr. Portelli, please sit down. We're looking for her. We're just trying to get a handle on your wife's usual conduct, that's all." She watched the man's face, hoping for some sign, some signal, something.

"All right, I guess," Doug sighed. "She'd go about twice a month, usually; once in a while, more even though I told her I didn't like it... being gone all the time. She'd always call me, you know, letting me know she was there and we'd say goodnight. This is the first time this has ever happened. And, now... you tell me you found her car?"

"Mr. Portelli, we found your wife's car in East L.A. It was in a chop shop." The redhead seemed too eager to share that bit of information and Jones looked at her, a mixture of amusement and gentle admonishment on his face.

"Jesus Christ! I knew it... I called you guys to look for her and got the run-around. Now her car has been stolen and she's missing. What the fuck more do you want? Shit, I've got to change the locks. God knows who's got the keys." Doug sat back down, heavily sinking into the cushion.

"We'll need your sister-in-law's information so we can go see her." Jones seemed all right with Phillips asking most of the questions. He had been her only partner ever since she made detective last year and he was pleased with the progress she was making, learning what and how.

"Sure, here, I'll write it all down for you. Will you need directions to the house?" He went to find a pen.

"No, that's OK, we can find it." Phillips looked intently at something on her screen.

"Am I going to need a lawyer on this? Every cop show, the husband's always the suspect."

"I'll be honest, Mr. Portelli, right now, you're our only suspect but we'll clear you as soon as we can. OK? Since you mention it, where were you over the weekend?

"Friday night, I was with Mrs. Kittrell... she lives across the street. She needed a window fixed before it got dark but it kept going. She needed this and then that and then the other thing. I didn't get out of there until way late. I couldn't get out of there; she kept coming up with something else for me to do. Saturday, I spent most of the morning with Jack Pierce, he lives next door. We're fooling around with his old car. I think it's a piece of junk but he likes it and then I watched football games. Sunday, I just spent the day here, watching football and wondering where the hell my wife was and why hadn't she called."

"Mrs. Kittrell, you say?"

"Yes... just, find my wife. Please..."

Jones and Phillips walked across the street and disappeared into Mrs. Kittrell's house. Shortly, they left, crossed the street and knocked on Pierce's door but there was no one home. Jones left his card in the doorjamb, asking the man to call.

The two detectives drove away as Doug stood on his porch, watching them leave. He went back inside the house, closed the drapes in the living room and went to lie down. What a horrible weekend, he thought through his tears. He knew he'd never see his wife again.

"What do you think, Susan?" asked Jones as they sped up the onramp onto the 405 and headed north to Ventura.

"I don't know. Whatever's going on, he definitely is sad and upset. She backs up his story for Friday night but he doesn't have much of an alibi for earlier in the day since he only worked a half-day. Pierce will probably be the same thing. Besides, he says his in-laws kept giving him the run-around, so let's see what the sister has to say. I think there's more going on than Portelli is saying or knows."

Traffic slowed to a crawl and Jones decided to take the Coast Highway to Ventura rather than fight their way to the 101. An hour and a half later, give or take a few minutes, they finally found the Hancocks' house.

"This should be interesting," Phillips said, never trusting anyone except her partner. "You know, we're way out of our jurisdiction."

"We go where the case takes us, you know that."

'Ding-dong' went the front bell and the door was opened by a child about six. She looked at them, eyes wide open in surprise. "Mommy! There's people here!"

"Damn it, Leslie! How many times have I told you not to open the door? Go to your room!"

A dishwater blonde opened the door wider. "Yes?" she asked, a half-burnt cigarette dangling from her lips, her bathrobe loosely open.

Jones glanced at Phillips; the sister wasn't anything like they expected considering the Portellis' upper-middle class house. He cleared his throat and pulled out his badge. "Uh, Mrs. Hancock? I'm Detective Jones and this is my partner, Detective Phillips. We're here to talk about your sister."

The woman's face blanched and then she tried to regain her composure. "I... come in. Sorry the house's a mess... kids, you know."

The two detectives looked around the room. It looked like a tornado had blown through minutes before with children's toys scattered around the furniture. Mixed in the mess were a couple of empty beer cans.

She hurriedly cleared off the sofa and an easy chair. "Sorry..." she said, again. "You said, this is about Terri?"

Jones noticed a shiver run through the woman's body. "Yes... she's missing. We're trying to determine what time she left your house Sunday."

The woman's face paled, once again. Just then, her husband walked in from the back yard. He was an older man and although looking physically fit, the detectives could see he had lived a hard life.

"Who are you and what's this about?" he asked. He set his Coors down on the coffee table.

"Good morning, Mr. Hancock. We're Jones and Phillips, LAPD and we're looking into the disappearance of your sister-in-law."

"Why are you asking us? I haven't seen that... her in at least a year. Karen goes to visit her down in Venice when they meet."

Jones glanced at Phillips but his partner kept her face stone-cold at this new information. Oh, shit, he thought, this just got interesting.

"Perhaps, it would be better if we all sat down?" Jones said. "I think this is going to take a while."

When the detectives finally left, they left with Peter Hancock, convincing him it was for his own good to leave the house for a while before he did something more than throw a table lamp through the television. They stood talking on the front lawn.

"Mr. Hancock... please, for your own good, leave your wife alone. We're going to overlook the TV business but you're only going to get yourself in jail if you do anything else." Jones hoped the man would listen to his words.

"Oh, don't worry about me; I'm divorcing her sorry ass... the cheating bitch. I can't believe it. I took her out of that nowhere 7-11 job and trailer park and gave her a home and a last name for her kid. Her tramp of a sister was waitressing down at Maria's on Main until she somehow met Doug and they married. I thought she changed her ways, considering how well he treated her. Jesus Christ, you can't trust anyone, can you? No, I'm good. I'm not going to jail for her or anyone else, I've been there and it's not worth it. Oh, my God, what about Doug? He's going to freak when he finds out. Are you going to tell him?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"You want me to do it?" Peter Hancock looked ready to drive all the way to Los Angeles to do so.

"No... that's something we're going to have to do. Please, don't call him, OK? We need to see how he reacts to this bit of news. Are you sure he's unaware of what his wife was doing?"

"Are you kidding? That guy worshipped the ground she walked on. He did everything for her. This is going to kill him. Well, then, I've got to go to the bank and take care of some things."

"Here's my card, Mr. Hancock. Don't do anything stupid, now," said Phillips.

"Too late for that, Detective, I already did three years ago. But, it's not too late to take care of it... now. Damn it!"

"Susan, you drive, will you?" Jones said as he settled himself in the passenger seat.

"Fine, but let's get something to eat, first. There's a place I know down by the marina, here."

"All right, you win. Beats a Whopper, I guess. Jesus, anything beats a Whopper."

"You're going to kill yourself eating all that crap if you don't watch out... what'd you say?"

"Trailer trash, we used to call people like that."

At the marina, Phillips looked at the menu and ordered the crab salad. Jones chose the fish and chips.

"You know, Al, keep eating all that fried food and you're going to die." Phillips took a sip of her Coke.

"Yeah, well... that was classic. He picked up that lamp and threw it through the screen. 'Jerry Springer, this, you bitch!' Classic." Jones laughed. "That show is... it can't be real. How can people be THAT screwed up? Oh, honey, I've got something to tell you and it'll be on TV... ah, c'mon."

"What do you think Portelli's response is going to be?" Phillips' salad arrived and she started to eat.

"I don't know. Was she able to hide her trampy personality all this time? Must have, if he was worshipping the ground she walked on. Poor bastard." Jones looked at his fish and chips, wondering if his choice was the best after all.

"Assuming he's innocent..." Phillips said.

"Assuming he's innocent," Jones laughed. "He still doesn't have an alibi for the late morning."

"Only guilty people have alibis for every minute of the day."

Later, as Phillips drove south on PCH, Jones was going over what they had learned and putting his notes into his laptop. "You know," he said, "this is going a whole new direction, now. I wonder who the boyfriend is."

"We better find out, that's for sure. If Portelli found out, it puts him back on the front burner. What do you think? Is he the avenging husband?" Phillips glanced at her partner before honking at a car trying to cut them off.

"I don't know. I guess it all depends on whether he knows anything or not. Hang on." Jones pulled out his cell and punched in Portelli's number. "Hello? Mr. Portelli? This is Alfred Jones. We spoke this morning?" Jones started writing on his notepad. "Yes, we would like to speak with you, again. Is this afternoon convenient?" He wrote some more. "All right, then, about six o'clock. Thank you."

Jones wrote some more into his notebook, crossed some lines out and then began typing into his laptop, once again. "He'll meet us, he said, at his house but he's getting a lawyer. I don't blame him. This is going to get ugly before it's over." He looked out the window at the ocean, its waves pounding the breakwater rocks lining the side of the road. "Man, I hate these kinds of cases. Nobody wins and sometimes I feel like the wrong person goes to jail."

"What do you mean?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the road, regardless of the ocean's rough, forceful beauty or her partner's surprising comment.

"Let's say the wife cheats... which is what's happening here. The divorce laws kill the husband even though he's the hurt party and the poor bastard loses half his stuff, probably his house. If he's got kids, it's even worse. I don't want to be in Hancock's shoes, that's for sure."

"So, you're saying it's OK to kill the cheating spouse?"

Jones gave no answer but there was a smile forming on his lips. There was what was legal, what was fair, what was moral and what was just.

It was closer to six-thirty before they returned to Portelli's house. Inside, they were introduced to Marcia Geoffrian, Doug's lawyer.

Doug and Marcia sat on the sofa, Jones and Phillips the two remaining chairs.

Ms. Geoffrian spoke first, handing them her card. "I'm here to make sure that Mr. Portelli's rights aren't trampled upon. Have you any news of his wife's disappearance, yet?"

"That's why we're here again, today," Jones said, handing his own over. "There's been some new information and we need to... well, we need to talk, is all."

"You've found out something? Well?" Doug sat forward on the edge of the sofa, leaning toward the detective.

"How long has your wife been visiting her sister by herself?" Phillips looked closely at Doug.

"I'd say, maybe a year or so, maybe longer, I don't remember... before that, we used to both travel up there but she said she wanted some 'sister time' as she put it... what's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, I'm going to start at the beginning, then... it seems your wife and her sister have been having, if not affairs, then at least long-weekend lovers and have been covering for each other."

"What?!!!" Doug left the sofa, jumping up like the shuttle at liftoff. "What are you saying?"

"Please sit down," Jones said, now standing himself.

Doug paced the room, just as he had done earlier. "She was cheating on me? There's got to be some mistake! Not my Terri..." He collapsed back down onto the couch, his face buried in his hands.

"Your wife used her sister as a cover for her affair or affairs and her sister did the same for hers. Her husband didn't have a clue until we went there today." Jones sat back down.

"Oh, God, I forgot about Peter. How's he handling this?"

"He's left his wife and is planning on divorcing her, I guess. We're more worried about you, right now."

"What do you mean, as a cover?" Doug looked at his wedding picture hanging on the wall.

"When your wife said she was with her sister, she was with her lover and the same for her sister. It worked until this happened," Phillips offered.

"But... you STILL don't know where my wife..." His voice dropped off, the weight of what the detective had said weighed heavily on his heart, as far as Jones and Phillips could see.

"Detectives, is there ANYTHING else you can say that isn't going to rip my heart out?"