The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 24

My mind and body are no longer what they were when I was in my twenties. Visiting a bar after eleven on a weeknight now requires preparation. After napping for a few hours and taking in some carbs with leftover lasagna, I was all set.

It was about ten as I readied myself to head out to The Casbah, using tonight's little adventure as an excuse to play dress-up. I picked out some distressed black jeans, a tight, charcoal V-neck sweater, a cropped and studded leather bolero, and black stilettos. As I walked to my car in the apartment parking lot for tenants, I practiced my runway strut. The dark-colored Dodge in the row behind my Toyota started its engine and turned on its headlights, catching me by surprise. I instinctively raised my left hand to block out the high beams the Dodge flashed in my eyes. The driver lowered his lights, but the experience irritated me more than it should have. I wasn't sure why—it was just a little thing, with no reason to believe it was intentional.

The Casbah has a definite vibe that fits with its history—a "real rockers play here, posers go home!" feel. It was easy to see why every up-and-coming musician wanted to play here. That would be especially true for one not yet old enough to drink legally.

The bouncer directed me to the small round top that Terrence had reserved, and I ordered a Scotch and soda. I listened to the band play for the half-hour before the break. I had to admit, their music was pretty good, certainly better than the alcohol the establishment served. The band's vibe would make a good introduction for my first face-to-face conversation with Terrence.

Terrence unslung his guitar a few minutes after eleven-thirty and headed my way. He was around nineteen, slender and dark-complected with curly black hair, and no taller than me, if that.

"This is a sweet venue for a local band—how did you land this gig?" I asked as Terrence took the seat across from me.

"The Frenetic have played here before. I auditioned for them a while ago and played with them at a private party when their lead guitar went to jail for a DUI. Now he's sick with COVID. He's still fighting it after three months. The band liked my sound and remembered me, asked me to help out again. Don't tell anybody my age; I'm supposed to be twenty-one to play here."

"You have my word," I said with a soft grin. "So, your mom's husband says she's in Europe having fun, but everybody else thinks she's in trouble, maybe worse. On the phone, you said he killed her. What makes you think that?"

"That douchenozzle doctor hates animals," Terrence replied. "I'm pretty sure he tortured them back in elementary school." Terrence's face became dark red when upset, enough that I wondered if he had an underlying medical condition.

"So, when I got my new apartment with two of my friends, Mom gave me Bentley to keep. Bentley is Mom's chihuahua-spaniel mix, and she loves him a lot. She used to come over every other day to play with him. She'd take him for walks or to the park, and they'd run through the water at the beach."

As soon as Terrence calmed down, his face returned to its healthy color. The deep red seemed to be a reaction to specific triggers; in our conversation, almost anything to do with James Seaver.

"So, I take it she hasn't been around to see Bentley?" I asked.

"It's been almost a year since I've seen her. She wouldn't go away like that. She just wouldn't. My mom's not perfect, but she cares about Bentley and me. And Mom doesn't like change that much. Traveling isn't her thing."

The last part confirmed something Darrell had said. "What was your mom's relationship with James Seaver like?" I asked.

"He used to con Mom all the time. But he knew I liked Darrell and Emma, so he didn't even try to fool me. When Mom wasn't listening, that cracker would call me her 'colored boy' to make me mad and act out. He tried to make it look like it was my fault we didn't get along."

Terrence's face had turned red again.

"After Mom divorced Darrell, she kept saying how hard it was for someone her age to find a good man. She said she needed to be happy with what she had. Mom kept saying her father had looked out for us, and things would improve once the court was through with PawPaw's estate."

"Do you think she was just waiting for the right opportunity to get free of the doctor?" I asked.

"Maybe. I don't know what Mom wanted," Terrence answered. "If she even knew, it would have surprised me. I co-wrote one of our songs called 'Simpering Dog.' Mom was like that when she was around him. But that wasn't who she really was. She wanted him to acknowledge that he cared about her, not just her money. Before they married, he'd play that game like it was her fault for misunderstanding him. But he didn't give a rat's ass how she felt after they said their vows. They always fought, mostly about money, and he didn't like her friends. Or me."

"You know that the doctor claims she's doing the same thing she did right before she and Darrell divorced?" I asked.

"That was different," Terrence said. "Mom and I would exchange notes on my Facebook page when she left the first time. She asked me not to tell anyone, so I didn't. I tried to let Darrell know she was okay without saying anything, and I think he knew."

"When did you last hear from your mother this time?" I asked.

"It was almost ten months ago," Terrence said. "You can tell from the last time she updated her Facebook page. I know she's dead because she always added things to her timeline when she was alive."

"For your sake, I can only hope you are wrong about that. I wish I could offer something to prove your mother is alive, but I can't. I can only imagine what it must be like not to know."

Terrence's eyes were tearing up as he fought to maintain control. "Just please, please tell me as soon as you hear something, whichever way it goes," he begged. "You're right; the hardest part is not knowing. I feel like I owe her to keep the faith. But it's hard to shut out that Mom's not been around."

We could both see his bandmates taking their positions back on stage. Terrence apologized for not having more time as we said our goodbyes. After the break, I kept my seat through their first song. I reflected on how Theresa's going missing might have affected Terrence. I experienced a pang of guilt about not giving the young man more thought before meeting him. I realized I hadn't considered Terrence an audience member when I mapped out how to write this story. My conversation with him hadn't produced anything new concerning his mother's disappearance, but it would positively affect how I would tell her part in all of this. I owed him that.

The circumstantial evidence showed that Theresa was dead. James Seaver had likely murdered her, or at least was heavily involved. And sadly, like Brian, Theresa, too, would make for an imperfect victim.

I was still pondering Theresa's circumstances as I headed to my car across the poorly lit club lot. Then, from several car lengths away, I saw something out of the corner of my eye that made me do a double-take. Wasn't that the same Dodge two-door sedan I saw back at my apartment? Oh, come on, Debra Ann. I shook my head at my silliness—there must be tens of thousands of those things in San Diego.

And that was precisely the type of vehicle someone might own if The Casbah was one of their hangouts. Still...