Microphones and Murder Page 3

  “Yes...” I said, unsure of why he was asking. Leon and I had talked about this on the phone last week. I had told him about how I requested to see her case file and a detective by the name of Leah LeClare called me back and said it was an open investigation and not available for the press.

  When I reminded Leon of this conversation, he acted as if it was the first time he’d heard this. “It’s been sitting at the bottom of the homicide files for years. They need the public’s help!” Which is verbatim what he had said last week. “Yes! This damn case was hard right from the go of it,” Leon said, answering a question I hadn’t asked. “But I never gave up.”

  I began to worry that Leon was not as sharp as he claimed to be.

  “Amelia didn’t own a credit card and rarely used her debit card,” he said, looking far more animated than he did when we first arrived. “There wasn’t much payment history to show us where she’d been the days or weeks prior. The last recorded transaction was on the tenth. Amelia withdrew three-hundred dollars from an ATM off Bradley Road at 6:13 p.m. We were able to pull footage from the security camera, and that’s the last reported sighting of her.” Leon dug around in the box until he found the Missing Person Poster.

  And there she was.

  Amelia “Millie” Clark, last seen October 3, 2008.

  Hair: Blonde.

  Eyes: Blue

  Height: 5’6”

  Weight: 105 lbs.

  Last seen wearing a denim mini skirt, black leggings, black heels, a white shirt and a black vest.

  Certainly not hiking attire.

  Amelia had upturned eyes, a diamond-shaped face, a narrow nose, full and unsmiling lips, and shoulder-length straight hair. She was beautiful.

  Leon slapped his leg. “I think she’s alive!”

  Errr...I was caught off guard. When we had spoken on the phone, he said she was most likely dead. “What makes you think she’s still alive?” I asked, working hard to keep my voice from reaching a holy-hell octave, because I was having a minor panic attack inside. His flip-flopping and memory lapses were scary.

  Scary because he was the most reliable source I had.

  “It’s a hunch,” he said.

  “A hunch?” I worked hard to keep my face flat. “Why do you think she’d stay hidden all these years?”

  “That is the question.” Leon tapped his temple. “You don’t run away and hide unless there’s something or someone to hide from. Or unless someone is forcing you to stay hidden. And I don’t think she’d run away because of a silly YouTube video.”

  Now I was intrigued. “Then what do you think happened to her?”

  “That’s for you to find out.” Leon pulled another notebook from the box. This one was filled with interviews he’d conducted—Amelia’s co-workers at Direct Dental, neighbors, and friends.

  Camry flipped through each page and snapped pictures.

  Leon stopped her. “Take all of it home.”

  “Are you sure?” The box was filled with a decade’s worth of work. As much as I wanted to dive in, I was anxious to handle the precious cargo.

  Also, I couldn’t read his handwriting.

  At all.

  “I’m positive.” He pushed the box toward me using the end of a cane.

  “Why is this name highlighted?” Camry pointed to Carlos Hermosa written in the margin.

  Leon’s eyebrows shot up to his forehead. “Now there’s an episode for you. A suspect was never officially named but...the place is...he’s the one to...” he paused to take a breath and...

  “Leon?”

  Episode Two

  Mr. CinnaMann

  Leon Ramsey died.

  The last words out of his mouth were, “Now there’s an episode for you. A suspect was never officially named but...the place is...he’s the one to...go to…” Gone.

  Was Carlos Hermosa a suspect?

  Or were these two separate thoughts? A suspect was never named. He was the one to…go to...where? Where! I’ll never know.

  Out of respect for Opal and Minnie—who sat dutifully at her owner’s side while I frantically searched for a pulse—Camry and I left with the box in tow, allowing them time to process and grieve alone.

  On our way out, Opal confided in us that Leon had been diagnosed with lung cancer six months ago. It’s no wonder he was in a hurry to get the case solved.

  He never said anything to me about being sick and I felt awful.

  The situation was distressing.

  Not distressing because the success of Missing or Murdered counted on Leon’s knowledge of the case (even though it did).

  But because it brought back the same hollowing feelings I felt when I watched my mother lose her seven-year battle with ovarian cancer. You don’t recover from a parent’s death. You just learn to live with the pain. Sometimes you even forget about it for a short while. Then something happens to remind you of the massive hole in your heart and the raw, all-consuming grief returns with a vengeance.

  When this something happened, I worked.

  It was the best distraction.

  Without Leon, my best bet was to talk to Richard and Janet Clark.

  Which is precisely where I was going.

  “Slow down! You’re going to get us killed!” Camry held tight to the grab handle as I whipped my little Ford Focus onto Bradley Road.

  It was three forty-five and CinnaMann’s closed at four p.m.

  “Does he even know we’re coming?” Camry asked, still holding tight.

  “No,” I said, concentrating on the road. People here drove the actual speed limit and it was maddening. “I sent him a Facebook message yesterday saying we’d come in today, but he hasn’t read it yet.”

  “Then let’s go in the morn—Squirrel!”

  I swerved to the right lane, narrowly missing the runaway rodent. “Bakeries are busy in the morning; I want to catch him before he leaves for the day.”

  “What if he isn’t there—stop sign!”

  I came to a screeching halt. “According to Yelp reviews he’s always there.”

  “Are you sure we should be doing this right now? I’m freaking out. You’re freaking out. We should freak out in private.”

  “I’m not freaking out,” I lied.

  I was absolutely freaking out.

  I made a quick right into The Orcutt Plaza lot, sailed over the speed bumps, and found a parking spot. CinnaMann’s Bakery was tucked between a dance studio and a dry cleaner. Painted on the window was the familiar caricature of a chef holding a tray of steaming cinnamon rolls. The same chef that was on their Facebook page.

  Amelia’s parents, Janet and Richard Clark, owned CinnaMann’s. I’d only seen pictures of the two online. Richard looked exactly like someone who owned a bakery. Kind of like the Pillsbury Doughboy with a gray handlebar mustache. Janet looked exactly like someone who had lost her only child—frail, hollow eyes, long face, blonde hair down to her waist. It was surreal being so close to something I knew so much about yet had never seen in person. Like spotting a celebrity at the mall.

  “Are we recording this?” Camry removed her seatbelt.

  “Give me a lavalier mic and bring the rest in, discretely. I don’t know if he wants to be recorded.”

  Camry’s fingers worked quickly to untangle the lavalier cord she’d shoved into the bag at Leon’s. “Got it!” She held up the mic and frowned. “You look really nervous. Are you nervous? ‘Cause you look it.”

  “What? No. I’m upset and sad and...” She was right. I was nervous. But I didn’t know I was nervous until she said I looked nervous and now I was hell-a nervous.

  Calm down, Liv.

  Deep breath.

  You’ve got this.

  I didn’t know why I was even nervous.

  I’d dug deep into the Clark’s past (74 percent of murd
ers are committed by a person close to the victim, seemed a good place to start). The only thing to show up was a civil suit settled out of court in the nineties and hundreds of Yelp reviews talking about what a “kind-hearted” and “charismatic” person Richard Clark was. He and I had even conversed over Facebook messenger.

  Me: My name is Liv Olsen, I am a podcaster from San Diego. I’m interested in highlighting your daughter’s 2008 disappearance in our podcast series. I believe we can shed new light on the case.

  CinnaMann’s Bakery (two weeks later): What’s the name of the podcast?

  Me: It’s a new podcast titled, Missing or Murdered.

  CinnaMann’s Bakery (three weeks later): Let me check with my wife.

  Me (one week later): Hi there! Checking in. Did you have a chance to speak with your wife?

  CinnaMann’s Bakery (a week later): We’re fine. Thank you for your interest.

  Me (immediately): My pleasure. We will be traveling up to Santa Maria in the next few weeks.

  CinnaMann’s Bakery (one week later): Be sure to stop by the bakery when you’re here.

  Me: I will, thank you.

  Me (yesterday): We’re in town and plan to stop by tomorrow afternoon.

  Now it was time to meet CinnaMann in person. I wanted so badly to do right by Amelia. To do right by Leon. Just do this thing right!

  Guess this was where oomph came in to play.

  And better I find some, fast.

  I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to Camry. “Let’s do this.”

  The chef caricature on the window of CinnaMann’s was faded and peeling along the edges. Someone had scratched “JP loves HJ” into the leg and I wondered why Richard hadn’t replaced it. Inside, the bakery was smaller than I imagined. This wasn’t a sit-down-and-leisurely-sip-your-coffee type of joint. So much of the space was taken up by the kitchen, leaving little room for customers to maneuver. The walls were bare white with scuffed baseboards. The flooring was checkered and scratched. The menu was a changeable letter board hung slightly off centered above the display case. But the air was delicious: a mixture of filtered coffee and mouth-watering pastries.

  Who needs ambiance anyway?

  Behind the counter was a high-school-aged girl cleaning out the display case. She stood and greeted us with a you-seriously-are-showing-up-five-minutes-before-we-close smile. “Welcome to CinnaMann’s,” she said. “We have two cinnamon pull-apart loafs left.” She held up a tray of gooey bread, dripping in a cinnamon and sugar glaze.

  I had zero appetite.

  “Those look yummy,” I said. “But we’re here to speak to Richard Clark. Is he available?”

  The girl, Val per the tag pinned to her apron, put the tray down. “Sure, who are you?”

  “Amelia Clark.”

  I felt an almighty heave of horror.

  Did I say Amelia Clark?

  Val’s smile froze in place.

  Camry pushed past me. “Hi there, I’m Camry Lewis and this is Liv Olsen. We’re from the mega, soon-to-be-hit podcast series Missing or Murdered. We’d like to speak to Richard about his daughter, Amelia Clark. Can you tell him we’re here, please? He’s expecting us.”

  Val’s eyes went from Camry to me and back again. “Sure,” she said, drawing out each letter. “Hold on.”

  Val disappeared through a pair of swinging doors.

  I turned to Camry in a panic. “I can’t...why...how...I was thinking about Amelia and the name popped out of my mouth. I don’t know why I did that. I’m so frazzled about Leon. We should have waited until tomorrow—”

  Camry slapped me across the face. “Get a grip, woman, he’s coming.”

  Okay, I got this.

  Richard Clark pushed through the double-swinging doors. He was thinner than in the pictures I’d seen of him online. Older. Grayer. Had on a chef’s coat streaked with flour and icing.

  “Can I help you?” He had a smooth, charming voice and a million-dollar smile.

  I held out a hand. “Hello Mr. Clark. I’m Liv Olsen,” I said carefully. Not making that catastrophic mistake twice. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”

  “You too.” Richard shook my hand, but his face was void of recollection.

  “I’m the one doing the podcast about Amelia’s disappearance,” I said.

  Still nothing.

  “We spoke on Facebook?” I tried.

  There was an awkward silence until Camry added, “Missing or Murdered is the name of the series.” She pulled a business card from her bag.

  Richard’s face went puce. “I thought you weren’t doing it.”

  I was taken aback. “When we talked online you said you were fine with it.”

  “No, I said ‘we’re fine’ as in we’re fine, we don’t need you to do it.”

  Oh.

  This isn’t good.

  “I’m sorry for the miscommunication. I took your response as you were fine with the series.”

  Richard squinted down at me as if I were a moldy leftover. Val was crouched behind the display case, cleaning, except her eyes were on us and she’d been wiping the same spot for several minutes. “Well, we aren’t,” he said and thrust the business card into my hand. “Janet and I discussed it at length and decided that we don’t want anyone jeopardizing Amelia’s case.”

  “We would never jeopardize anything,” I said in a rush. “What we’ll do is garner public interest. Someone here knows what happened, and by putting Amelia in the limelight, that someone is more likely to talk.”

  Richard remained unmoved.

  Dammit.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening. No Leon. No Richard. No podcast. No justice for Amelia. No perfect record for Leon. Financial ruin for me. There was a lot riding on this.

  I summoned all the oomph and professionalism I could muster. Mostly asking myself: What would Mara do?

  Answer: Mara wouldn’t have said her name was Amelia. She would have made sure the success of her series wasn’t hinged on a man who was on his deathbed. She wouldn’t be here because there wasn’t enough material for a series.

  Okay, scratch that.

  What would Liv do?

  Answer: Liv would apologize profusely and return home with her metaphorical tail between her legs.

  Okay, scratch that.

  What would a professional do?

  Answer: “I can’t begin to understand what you and Mrs. Clark have gone through,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Our intention is only to help. I’ve worked on Cold in America for the last seven years, the most popular true crime podcast series in the world. I know what I’m doing and promise to craft the story with the utmost respect for both Amelia and your family. We’ve already begun production. If you’re not interested in recording, I respect your decision.” I wanted to tell him we couldn’t press forward without his blessing, but I had a feeling he’d take that as an opportunity to say no, again.

  “You’ve already started the podcast?” You could almost see the wheels in his head turning.

  “We have.” Which was technically true. I had the intro recorded, the avatar was on our hosting site, website was up, social media pages were live, and the two-hour interview with Leon was recorded. We were in this.

  Richard’s shoulders fell. “What do you need from me?”

  I felt faint with relief. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Yeah, okay, sure. Come on back.” He pushed through the double-swing doors.

  Camry and I shared a look. She mouthed what the frog?

  My sentiments exactly.

  We followed Richard through the kitchen. There was a teenage boy mopping the floor and another scrubbing an oven. The counters were clear. The trash was piled by the back door and country music blasted from a small radio. Richard led us out the exit to an alleyway where we found a small round
table and chairs.

  Richard sat down, dropping like a man who has spent much of the day on his feet. The chairs were stiff and wobbly. I forgot I was mic’d until the pack in my back pocket hit the metal with a thud.

  “If you’re going to do this, I need to be informed of what information you find and what you’re going to use. I can’t have information leaked that only the detectives know. It will jeopardize her case,” Richard said. His words were sharp and to the point. Like a papa bear protecting his young. But there was also a charm about him. I could see how under less stressful (and awkward) encounters he could be quite pleasant.

  “We can certainly discuss new findings with you and Mrs. Clark,” I said.

  “Leave Janet out of this. She doesn’t like talking about Amelia.”

  Understandable. “Would you be open to us recording our conversations to use in the series?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I kept my mic on anyway and readjusted in my seat, suddenly remembering Camry. “This is Camry Lewis, she’s helping with the podcast.”

  Richard nodded.

  Camry nodded.

  I nodded because I was nervous.

  “What do you want to know?” asked Richard.

  “First, I hate to inform you, but Detective Leon Ramsey passed away earlier today,” I said.

  Richard pursed his lips, as if deciding how he should feel.

  “Leon is the one who contacted me,” I said. “He was passionate about Amelia’s case, even after retirement, and wanted it solved.”

  Richard was unresponsive, not even a “that’s a shame” or “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I recalled an interview I’d read online. It was published in The Santa Maria Tribune the day before the Orcutt Hollow search. Richard had poked at Leon, calling him “an amateur.” I wondered if Richard blamed Leon for the case going cold? I’ll ask once I’m able to coax more than one-word answers from him, I decided.

  “I’d love to get to know more about who Amelia was,” I said, figuring it a good place to start. “Her hobbies. Personality. Who did she hang out with? A story or two from her childhood. Whatever you’d like listeners to know.”