We turned up a tree-lined block full of luxury apartment condominiums, and she led me to an old Nissan Sentra, once red, now faded to dusty rose. The car’s trunk was littered with leaves.
“Two-hour limit,” she said, pointing to a parking sign, “but usually they don’t check. Sometimes I park in the employee lot under the hotel, but sometimes it’s full. And I don’t like those subterranean things. Spooky.”
She unlocked the car. “Do you mind sitting in here? All my Shawna things are in here.”
I got into the front passenger seat, and she opened the trunk and closed it and came back with a foot-square box marked KITCHENWARE and tied with a yellow ribbon that she loosened.
“I know I shouldn’t keep it in the car,” she said, “but I like to have it close by. Sometimes I get a sandwich and come out here and go through it. Dr. Yoshimura said that was fine.”
Looking to me for confirmation. I nodded.
She pulled a small, pink satin album from the carton and handed it to me. “This is Shawna when she was little.”
Thirty pages of snapshots, from infancy to sixth grade. Mostly solos of a beautiful, golden-haired girl. From early on Shawna Yeager had possessed a flair for the optimal pose.
Agnes Yeager was present in a handful of shots, dark-haired, plain. A few others—early, faded photos—featured a very tall, fair-haired man with a movie-idol face marred by protuberant jug ears. In the snaps where he and Agnes were together, both parents smoked. Shawna surrounded by loving smiles and haze.
“Shawna’s dad?” I said.
“My Bob. He was a long-distance trucker, worked for himself, then Vons markets. He was killed by a drunk driver when Shawna was four. Not even driving. Walking from the men’s room to his rig at a truck stop in Indio. Shawna didn’t remember him—even when he was alive he wasn’t home much. But he was a loving man and a virile man. Not much for expressing his feelings, but never a cross word. And he did love Shawna—she got her looks from him, color-wise and size-wise. He was six foot four and a half, a big basketball star in high school. Shawna ended up five-nine. I’m five-two and a quarter.”
As I studied Bob Yeager’s face, something struck me. I kept it to myself, returned the album, only to receive another, larger, blue-bound.
“This is her pageant stuff,” said Agnes. “Local newspaper stories, each time she won. I never pushed her into none of it. The first time she saw the Miss America pageant on TV she said, ‘Mommy, dat what I want.’ She was four.”
I paged through the clippings, endured smile after smile.
Agnes Yeager said, “I know none of this will help you, but maybe this—the stories this kid reporter for the college paper did. He was really interested in Shawna, wrote up a lot of stories—”
“Adam Green.”
“You talked to him.”
“I have.”
“Did he tell you his suspicions about Shawna?”
“Suspicions?”
“That she’d taken off her clothes and posed for dirty pictures— He didn’t actually come out and say it. He thought he was being subtle, but from the questions he was asking, I could tell that’s where he was leading. So of course I got mad and managed to end the conversation and didn’t take any more of his calls. Later, I wondered if that had been a mistake. ‘Cause that boy was the only one who seemed to have any interest in what happened to Shawna. And even though I got offended …”
“Do you think there’s a chance Shawna might’ve posed?”
Her shoulders rose and fell. “I wish I could say no way. But time passes and your head clears— The truth is Shawna loved her looks. Loved her body. One day she came home with an old mirror she’d picked up at some junk shop and hung it in her bedroom—a huge mirror. She was fourteen. I didn’t argue—everyone also says choose your battles. Besides, you didn’t want to go up against Shawna. She was headstrong. The truth is, if she could’ve hung four walls of mirrors, she would’ve. Probably my fault, a day didn’t go by when I wasn’t telling her how gorgeous she was. And if 7 wasn’t, other people were.”