Hello Sweet Lady,

Hadn’t seen these since the riots. Wondered if God made different colors of people so we’d fight, to keep us from building heaven on earth. Think of you every second. Got a song this morning, going straight to the demo.

Love,

J.B.

A red telephone on a pile of paper an inch high. Nick set the phone aside and glanced through the pile. There were three pads of lined notebook paper with most of the sheets gone. Crowded with numbers and doodles. Corners bent, pieces torn out. Even the cardboard backings were covered with ink. Loose sheets of typing paper, covered, too. The girl was a chronic doodler: mostly flower petals and clouds with tightly detailed cross-hatchings. Like those old woodcuts, Nick thought. Horses. Waves. Not bad. And pages torn from phone books, some with circled numbers, but the circles were so big you couldn’t tell which number she meant.

There was a worship program from David’s Grove Drive-In Church of God, too. No surprise there. Nick was about to flip past it when he caught the date-October 6, 1968. This coming Sunday, he thought. How’d she come up with that? Do they mail them in advance or something? A reminder? David would know. The sermon was “Keeping Your Heart Young Through God’s Love.”

Next to the pile was a shoe box half full of bar and restaurant napkins with names and numbers on them. Business cards. Pens and pencils. Matchbooks: Frank Cavalier Bail Bonds-Get Out Fast! The Sandpiper Nightclub. Lorenzo’s-Fine Steaks & Cocktails.

Hadn’t the Journal just given Lorenzo’s a glowing review? Yes, thought Nick, four out of five forks. And the Register had said it stunk. He flipped the cover open to a tiny map and the phone number. Dropped it back into the shoe box.

Nick smelled Lobdell’s cigarette smoke wafting into the kitchen. A moment later Lobdell walked in holding a pretty golden crown with orange-colored jewels on it, and a handful of newspapers.

“She was Miss Tustin,” said Lobdell. “The one they took the title away from. You remember.”

“Sure. It was only a year ago.”

“Look-they let her keep this chintzy crown, but they stripped her title away. Must have broke her heart. All these newspaper clips are the fun stuff she did. She saved them in a drawer.”

Lobdell held out the little crown and the papers, looking from one to the other. Then at Nick. Cigarette in the crown hand. He shook both the crown and the newspapers like he had just presented compelling evidence, then lumbered back into the bedroom.

Nick figured that Janelle had come here to start over. Came to Laguna to get away from Miss Tustin and the Playboy cover and all that.

Nick picked through the papers and shoe box. Janelle Vonn’s handwriting was relaxed and innocent-big loops, not much slant, i’s dotted with small circles. He flipped the pages, noting that some of the names and numbers were repeated. Too lazy to look through the stack? Why not put them in the phone and address book she carried?

On a loose sheet of paper near the top:

B. Beat

Dr. T/O Sun

Jesse B.

CB

UCI $

He dialed the first one and got Blue Beat music in Laguna. Craig the owner said they weren’t open for business yet but were working on the building. Sure, he knew Janelle, couldn’t believe what happened. Great girl. Full of wonder and feeling. Into music. Into experience. Beautiful laugh and smile.

Craig wanted to know if they caught the stabber from the Boom Boom Bungalow.

Nick said he hadn’t heard of an arrest, but the Laguna cops were handling it.

Peace, said Craig.

The second was a Laguna number-no answer. The third was a Los Angeles area code-J.B. again-but it just rang, too.

A stoned-sounding man picked up at the CB number. Nick identified himself and the guy said “kiss my butt” and hung up. Nick called right back but got no answer.

The University of California, Irvine, admissions office confirmed that Janelle Vonn was receiving Pell grants and loans totaling one hundred and fifty-six dollars for this, the fall quarter. And an annual two-hundred-dollar scholarship award for the next four years, from the Tustin Chamber of Commerce. This award had been rescinded by the chamber last November. Nick could tell by her tone of voice that the UCI clerk knew what had happened.

“Check this,” said Lobdell. He stood in the little hallway holding a coat hanger by one big finger. On the hanger was a black leather jacket with silver studs on it. Elegant pleats on the sides, with red leather showing through. Kind of motorcycle-looking but kind of European-looking, too, thought Nick. He knew nothing about fashion. “It was hanging on the closet door. Not in the closet, but on the door of it.”

“What’s the label say?”

“Neck Deep, Laguna Beach,” said Lobdell. “Made me think of her neck.”

“Same outfit that made her purse,” said Nick. “I don’t like that name. Made me think of her neck, too.”

THE SPARE BEDROOM had a mattress on the floor, covered with bright Mexican serapes and big pillows in a batik print with gold tassels. Three SunBlesst orange boxes with the dark-haired beauty on the label. California Girl. Someone had drawn a mustache on one of them. Nick wondered if the label model reminded Janelle of herself.

One of the crates held paperback books and fashion magazines. One was filled with record albums. Disraeli Gears out front. The third had a folder with Janelle Vonn’s birth certificate and high school diploma, a Tustin High School yearbook for 1967, and two large envelopes of Vonn family pictures. There was a handful of pay stubs from the Five Crowns Restaurant in a bag with a smiling dog on it. She made a dollar five an hour. The most recent stub was almost six months old. Two pay stubs from the Gleason/Marx Agency in Hollywood for a total of seven hundred and fifteen dollars.

“And check this, too,” said Lobdell, darkening the doorway again. A handful of odd-sized letters and envelopes clutched in one hand. “Our honey had a honey. ‘Until I touch your body with my fire…your two perfect mirrors of skin and soul…the city lights and the naked trees and the different yous who live in me…brush my lips across your crying eyes.’ Fucking poetry, I guess. It’s written that way, little short lines. No periods or commas. Guy’s name is Jesse Black.”

“Those are song lyrics,” said Nick. “He was up in Los Angeles eight days ago, making a demonstration tape.”

Lobdell lowered the letter. “You know him?”

“Postcard in her college book.”

“Here’s one: ‘The outline of your back is still fresh upon my hand and all the colors of your heartbreak stain the floor. I misjudged your beauty and the contour of your love like a wave that never made it quite to shore.’”

Nick saw a fist hit the back of a pale woman. Saw her dark curls shiver and shake. And red-black blood on the packinghouse floorboards.

“A demonstration tape for what?” asked Lobdell. “This guy wants to be the next Ringo or something?”

“Read another one.”

“Like this stuff, huh? ‘High heels clickin’ down the avenue, sweet new baby off to try the old soft-shoe.’ What, she’s gonna be a dancer?”

“Then what happens?”

“‘But the neon fades with sunrise and your face looks like the dead, you should be at home new baby in your very own bed. Come back baby to your very own bed.’ Hubba-hubba. See, Nicky, she stays out too late dancing. Makes her look old and ugly.”

Dancing with other guys, thought Nick.

“Here,” said Lobdell. He looked around the room like an unimpressed buyer. Dropped the letters onto a yellow and black serape on the guest bed. “I never understand this fancy stuff. I only read for facts.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Nick read them over. Didn’t find anything else that reminded him of Janelle’s body in the packinghouse. But that one…