Too Big To Miss: Odelia Grey Mystery, #1

TOO BIG TO MISS

An Odelia Grey Mystery

by

Sue Ann Jaffarian

Dedication

For Rudy

CHAPTER

ONE

MY WEEKEND WAS D.O.A. ... dead on arrival.

Two o’clock on a bright Sunday afternoon, and I was already counting the hours until I could go back to work. Now that’s sad.

Stopped at the corner of Newport Boulevard and Seventeenth Street in Costa Mesa, I waited to complete a right turn. It was a busy intersection, even on a Sunday. I tapped my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and looked around.

SIZE DOES MATTER!

The giant advertisement caught my eye like a hook in a trout’s lip.

Behind me, someone honked. I dragged my attention away from the billboard and saw that the traffic light was green. I hit the gas and turned the wheel of the car sharply, causing the vehicle to swerve as it rounded the corner.

Careful, Odelia, I cautioned in a low tone, no need to season your foul mood with a crunched fender.

There it was again. This time on a billboard overlooking the grocery store that was my destination.

SIZE DOES MATTER!

It was all the sign said. Just three words emblazoned across a gargantuan advertisement for a new model sports utility vehicle; as if the damn gas guzzlers couldn’t get any bigger.

Without much trouble, I found a parking spot near the front door of the market. Turning off the engine, I smoothed the fabric of my sun dress across my ample lap, and sat quietly in the car to think. Not about the groceries waiting to be bought, but about the three words now burned forever into my brain.

SIZE DOES MATTER!

You bet your sweet ass size matters. It matters a lot. Though how and to what it is applied is ambiguous. Size seemed to matter in random chaos. No hard and fast rules, just whatever fits your needs at the moment. Jumbo burgers, super-sized fries, and biggie drinks were a good thing. Small paychecks were bad. Big houses were good. Small diamonds bad.

From the first time Adam noticed shrinkage and explained it to Eve, men have been trying to tell women that size didn't matter when it came to their manhood. Small penis. Big penis. Made no difference. Both were good. The same men have been telling women that size does matter when it comes to breasts, butts and hips. To add to the confusion, big and small could also be good and bad at the same time. Big smile good. Big ass bad. Small waist good. Small tits bad.

It was a puzzle. A girl needed a scorecard or, at the very least, a seminar with a syllabus to make any sense of it.

I was feeling sorry for myself. On top of licking wounds from a particularly confusing date the night before, I had just come from visiting my father. Poor sweet Dad, I thought, shaking my head. That recent memory alone was enough to entice me into restarting my engine, and driving my old but dependable car right through the plate glass window of the grocery store.

Giving a deep sigh, I took a minute to think about it. I wasn’t the type to look at life through rose-colored glasses, but neither was I a doom and gloom sort. Yet, I’d been on edge all weekend. And it wasn’t PMS. I’d ridden that roller coaster last week. No, it was something else. Disenchantment maybe, possibly disgruntlement. Rut was written all over my life. R-U-T in big bold letters, outlined in neon tube lighting. It competed for attention with the now important Size Does Matter. For better or for worse, I definitely needed a change. Standing still wasn’t an option any longer.

Stuffed in my wallet were two one-dollar-off coupons for my favorite comfort food, Stouffer's Macaroni and Cheese. Later, I was going to throw myself a pity party ... a big one ... catered by Sara Lee and all her friends from the frozen food section.

Odeliaaaaa, I scolded audibly, drawing out the last syllable in a menacing tone. Eating this stuff is not going to help matters.

No it wouldn’t, but change could start tomorrow. It seemed natural, new beginnings on a Monday. Diets always began on Monday, why couldn’t other improvements. You never hear of anyone starting anything of importance on a Tuesday or a Wednesday.

By the way, Odelia is not my imaginary friend. I am Odelia, Odelia Patience Grey, and I tend to talk to myself when alone, though why is beyond me since I never listen. I am hardly a scintillating conversationalist in the best of times, and can be a real nag when my mood is less than sunny. Like now.

Turning the usual deaf ear to my own lecture, I hoisted myself out of the car and wandered into the store. The brightly-lit aisles of the market beckoned me with specials, and new and improved items. I strolled down each one, gripping a red plastic basket in one hand. It was my misguided opinion, and denial of choice, that if I used a smaller hand carried basket rather than a full-size cart, I would be less apt to load up on junk food. Sometimes the theory worked. Most of the time I just experienced shoulder pain from lugging a too full and too heavy basket.

Meandering the well-stocked aisles, I plucked items from my list off the shelves. Tea bags, two containers of shower soap, and several cans of cat food for starters. I also picked up an assortment of things not on the list ― E.L. Fudge Cookies, the vanilla ones with the chocolate centers, and the much sought after large-size macaroni and cheese in the red rectangle box. Out of guilt, and with a bow to nutrition, along the way I tossed in a bag of prewashed salad mix, a few tomatoes, and a small bunch of bananas. The next stop was the frozen dessert section, where I debated between a carton of Cherry Garcia ice cream and cheesecake, with the latter already in my hand. Using one leg to support the now heavy basket, I deliberated my choice.

Put down the Sara Lee, and nobody gets hurt.

I gave a little jump at the unexpected but familiar voice. Turning around, I held the chilly box in front of me like a hostage in a shoot-out.

You’ll never take me alive! I declared.

A few feet away, wheeling her own full cart, was Zenobia Washington, my dearest friend. She approached me, slowly shaking her head side-to-side.

Girl, she said firmly, you were supposed to call me this morning and let me know how it went last night.

Zenobia, called Zee by everyone but her father, a man fiercely fond of the unusual name he had chosen for his only daughter, fixed her large liquid brown eyes on me and placed a hand on a generous hip. It was an intimidating stance. A posture that worked on most people, but only made me roll my eyes in childish defiance.

Is it a safe assumption, Zee continued without waiting for an answer, from what’s in your basket, that the date was a bust?

I nodded. I have known Zee for almost fifteen years, dating back to the time we both worked for the same law firm. We were more than good friends. At times we were each other’s conscience, a mirrored reflection of life’s measurement, both good and bad. But I can say truthfully, and without envy, that Zenobia Washington’s image portrayed a more noble character than my own.

Zee knew that had my date been a success, my basket would have held lots of fresh fruit, vegetables, and fish. As a rule, my grocery shopping habits rode the roller coaster of my emotions. Like arthritic knees predicting rain, my purchases could foretell a sagging spirit with unfailing accuracy. Zee knew this, and suffered a similar affliction.

I was going to call you later, I said, not lying. I had lunch with my family today.

Lunch with your family! She laughed heartily, her large body jiggling with an almost Santa-like bowl of jelly quality. "Then I’m surprised you only have one package of cheesecake in your hand."

We were almost identical in size. Both of us are about five foot one or so. Both tip the scales in the two-fifteen, two-thirty range, and wear size twenty. We are even about the same age, with Zee at forty-two, and me the elder at forty-five. The only difference is our color. Zee is the color of a creamy semi-sweet chocolate bar, while my skin tone resembles the cookies in my basket, minus the fudge filling. Zee’s husband, Seth, often refers to us as his favorite salt and pepper shakers.

So what’s this one’s story? Zee asked, referring to my date the night before.

The usual, was all I blandly responded, knowing that I did not have to go into the gory details with Zee right this minute. It was the same old shit, different cast.

It had been a fix-up, a blind date set up by a well-meaning skinny co-worker who had no clue that most men in Southern California placed overweight women in the same category as serial killers and believed them worthy of the same punishment ― the death penalty. Finally, I had given in to her assurances that this man and I had a lot in common. Which, sadly, we did. But I saw the look of disappointment on his face when he entered the restaurant and realized that I was his date. I had seen that look before. It was unmistakable disgust encased in civility. Like a dead fish wrapped in clean white butcher paper, the covering kept your hands from being soiled, but could not stop the stink.

As soon as the check was paid, he had walked me to my car. When he asked for a good night kiss, I thought that maybe I was paranoid about his chilly behavior. When his kiss became passionate, I was sure that I had read his signals incorrectly. But after washing and waxing my tonsils with his tongue in the darkness of the parking lot, he shrank from any suggestion that we should get together again. After four decades, I knew the score. If I had offered him my body, he would have bedded me, as long as he did not have to be seen with me.

Zee sighed deeply and reached out a hand to warmly touch my arm. I’m sorry, sweetie. She took the cheesecake from my hand and put it back into the freezer, receiving no protests. Seth can’t be the only decent man out there.

Screwing up my freckled face in a most unbecoming way, I demonstrated my lack of faith in her statement. I wanted to be a good sport about it, not a childish whiner. But no matter how you slice the cheesecake, size does matter. How could one argue with a billboard?

Why don’t you join us for supper tonight? Zee asked. Just roast chicken, but it’s a lot safer than going home and devouring that crap in the dark. Not to mention, you haven’t spent an evening with us in a while.

Just as I was about to accept, Hannah, Zee’s daughter, trotted up. Her gorgeous seventeen-year-old face looked serious. In her hand was a cell phone.

It’s Daddy, she said in a rush. She looked at me, surprise registering at my presence. Zee reached for the phone, but Hannah stopped her. He says he’s looking for Aunt Odie.

Zee and I shrugged together as if on cue. I took the phone from the girl.

Seth, it’s me, Odelia. I was shopping when ... . I stopped talking and listened. As his words entered my ear and saturated my brain, I felt my face cloud over and my lower lip tremble.

I’ll be right there, I finally said stiffly into the phone, then handed it back to Hannah.

Without looking at Zee, I leaned in close to her and uttered the news Seth had just relayed. My voice was low and raspy. My hands shook.

The police just called your house looking for me, I told her. Sophie London committed suicide.

Zee being Zee, she kicked into action like a general whose troops were under attack. She turned her cart over to Hannah.

Here, take the car keys and my ATM card, you know the code. Finish getting the stuff on this list, then go right home and stay there. I’m going with Odelia.

Hannah hesitated, her young face going from mine to her mother’s with unasked questions. But ..., she started to say.

Her mother cut her off, but not unkindly. Just do as I say, child. And while you’re at it, pay for Odelia’s things, too.

She took the red plastic basket from my grasp and hoisted it on top of her own cart. When Hannah started off, Zee stopped her. Opening the freezer door, she took out the cheesecake she had just put back and tossed it into the basket before sending the girl away.

We’re going to need that, she told me before taking my arm and leading me out of the store.

Sophie London did not have much, if any, family. I often envied her solitude and filial independence. Sophie’s life seemed easier, less complicated and frustrating than my own. But then I have never thought about, much less attempted, blowing my brains out.

When Sophie had asked if she could use me as her emergency contact, I happily agreed. Zee was the secondary emergency contact, which is why the police had called Zee’s house when they could not locate me. The detective told me that he got our names and numbers from the front of Sophie’s address book, the page where you list emergency information.

Zee and I met Sophie nearly three years ago at a fashion show sponsored by Abundance, a store in Newport Beach specializing in plus size women’s fashions.

Sophie London is ... was ... gorgeous, funny, and vibrant. But what attracted us most, especially me, was her confidence. She was big. She was beautiful. She was proud. Her battle cry was I’m too big to miss. She had even painstakingly cross stitched the saying on linen, framed it, and hung the completed project in a prominent place in her living room. We were also about the same age, and since both of us were single, we often went out together socially.

The news of her suicide rocked my tiny rut-filled world.

About a year and a half ago, Sophie started a support group for large people called Reality Check. A small core group of mostly women meet in Sophie’s home every other Wednesday night to talk about the social and emotional problems of being overweight. Reality Check is not a diet club. If people want to lose weight, the group supports them in their efforts. If someone needs dating tips, fashion help, interview guidance, or resume suggestions, it’s provided. We’re friends going through the same issues and helping each other with the solutions. Sophie’s charisma and positive outlook guided us all. She was our ideal BBW ― big, beautiful woman ― our mentor and banner carrier in a world idolizing size four and under. Now Sophie London was dead, and by her own hand. It did not make sense.

After Seth’s call, Zee and I drove to the Orange County Coroner’s office. They wanted us to identify the body. They also wanted to ask us questions. Seth, who’s an attorney, met us there and guided us through the process.

I had expected it to be like on TV. A sheet-covered body rolled out on a gurney. The sheet slowly and dramatically pulled back to reveal the lifeless body of the loved one. The swooning and falling into each other’s arms. I was equally relieved and disappointed.

Instead, Seth, Zee, and I were shown Sophie’s waxen face via a television monitor. We were told that she had put a gun into her mouth and pulled the trigger, and I expected to see destruction. But her face was untouched, her features perfect. She looked like she was asleep.

After being questioned by a detective, we went back to the Washington’s for the promised roast chicken dinner, followed by cheesecake for dessert. We ate quietly, going through the motions. Zee and Seth campaigned hard for me to stay overnight, but I finally convinced them that I’d be fine at home alone. Seth particularly didn’t want to see me leave. Somewhere during our years of friendship, he had adopted me as a younger sister with all the rights of advice-giving and protectiveness afforded a real older brother. He could be downright annoying at times, but tonight his concern felt as warm and soothing as a mug of hot cocoa.

Once at home, I wearily fitted my key into the front door lock of my townhouse and turned it. I repeated the action with the dead bolt located higher up. From the other side of the door, I could hear a half meow, half growl.

I’d like to say that I own a cat, but those of you who are familiar with cats would know that I’d be lying. So I’ll simply tell you that I live with a cat, a one-eyed, raggedy-eared, greenish feline named Seamus.

I have never been a cat person. Actually, I’m not much of an animal person. It’s not that I don’t like animals, just that I have never been around them much. But even my lack of expertise in the animal kingdom wouldn’t allow me to turn a deaf ear to a beast in trouble.

This past St. Patrick’s Day I had come home from work, arms full of grocery bags, to discover some of the children who lived in my complex tormenting Seamus. He wasn’t Seamus then, of course, just a nameless stray who lived by his wits among the brush and vegetation surrounding the nearby bay.

Somehow the kids had managed to capture him, bind him, and dye his shaggy coat green with what I later learned was nothing more than food coloring. By the time I intervened, the animal was out of his mind with terror and anger, and none of the little hoodlums dared to release him.

As soon as I yelled at them to stop, they scattered like roaches. I shook my head and approached the green ball of spit and fury cautiously. Hoping he was more hungry than angry, I pulled a can of tuna from my grocery bag. It was one of the small cans with a pull tab lid. It did the trick. Once the animal was busy eating, I gnawed through the cords with a pair of cuticle scissors I keep in my ever-present tote bag, freeing him as he finished. Picking up my groceries, I went home, my good deed done.

Before I knew it, the cat had taken up lodging on my patio, and I began leaving out little snacks for him. I named him Seamus because he was green and I had met him on St. Patrick’s day. Then one night, during a bad spring rain storm, I saw him hovering and shaking under the plastic patio table and invited him in. He has never left, and seems content with his new life.

Two months later, Seamus is still as green as the Emerald Isle.

As soon as I entered my home, I dropped my tote bag and groceries to the floor and scooped him up. Plopping down on the sofa, I clutched the animal close, burying my tearful face in his soft colorful fur.

CHAPTER

TWO

UP AND DOWN, UP AND down. This was how I spent the first night after Sophie’s death. I paced the taupe carpet in my townhouse half alive, seeing and feeling little to nothing. The clock moved slowly, each digital minute changing slower than ketchup pouring from a new bottle. Seamus, disgusted with the disturbance, left his usual spot at the end of my bed and went in search of quieter sleeping quarters.

The Home Shopping Network beamed brightly from the small television in my bedroom. A woman, much too chipper for the middle of the night, was peddling pink tourmaline earrings.

It just didn’t make sense.

Sophie’s death that is. It didn’t make sense to sell earrings at two in the morning either, but the jewelry lady was on her own.

It was difficult to drag myself to work the next day. But drag I did, pushing aside the idea of calling in and taking a personal day. I negotiated with my tired and confused body, telling it that the diversion of work might do me good. The compromise was that I would go to work, but would skip my usual morning walk.

Each morning several of us meet at 6 a.m. for a loosely scheduled walk around a section of Newport Bay, a protected estuary just a few minutes from my home. There is no set group of participants, just an understanding that at six each morning a walk around the back section of the bay begins, and all are welcome. We have had as many as ten people at a time, sometimes maybe no one. No one waits for anyone to show up. At six each morning walking commences, no matter who is or isn’t there. This casual exercise group has been going on, rain or shine, dark or light, for about a year. It was started by Sophie.

It wasn’t just fatigue that kept me from my exercise this morning. Most of the walkers were part of the Reality Check bunch, and the idea of seeing the faces and fielding the questions of our friends made me queasy.

Sophie’s death had been on the news last night and in the paper this morning. It was turning into a titillating gossip piece, something worthy of a supermarket tabloid.

ONLINE SEX STAR KILLS SELF AS DOZENS WATCH! was how one television station had hawked the lead story for their news the night before.

An online sex star?

I was still in shock over Sophie’s death. Now I was reeling from the knowledge that she had owned and operated an adult web site. I was only glad that the police had broken the news to us instead of the media vultures.

According to Detective Devin Frye, the homicide detective who interviewed us at the Coroner’s office, Sophie’s site was called Sassy Sophie. It was an Internet site set up with a camera that allowed viewers into her home via computer. Classified as a pornography site, for nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents a month, members could watch Sophie dress, shower, sleep, and even have sex.

Surfing the Internet, I had seen those sites before. Naked or scantily clad men and women played to their audience in front of a camera. Usually they tapped out messages via the keyboard and took requests. Many used a headset and spoke directly to their viewers. In some instances, the image was delayed, taking a few seconds for it to reach watchers around the world. But now, with streaming video and high speed Internet connections, almost all sites and activities on them were instantaneous. At the end of his day, a man in Cairo could watch a woman in Los Angeles take her morning shower.  

Detective Frye told us that as many as forty-five or fifty people, maybe even more, had seen Sophie put a gun into her mouth and pull the trigger. My blood iced over every time I thought about it, so I tried not to.

Seth said he would call and keep me informed about what was next concerning Sophie. One of his law partners, a man versed in estate matters, had drafted Sophie’s will a while back. He promised to contact the attorney this morning and see if there were any instructions on her personal matters. Zee and I knew almost nothing about Sophie’s family, just that both of her parents were dead. We were her emergency contacts, but knew of no one else who should be advised of what had happened.

I work in a law firm as well, but we do not handle wills or trust work, mostly corporate and business litigation. The work on my desk faded in and out of focus as I struggled to keep a grip on my emotions.

For seventeen years I have been employed by the firm of Wallace, Boer, Brown and Yates, or Woobie as we inmates refer to it. I serve as the legal assistant to Wendall Wallace, one of the firm’s founding partners, and as a corporate paralegal. This is the same firm where I met Zee. She worked here for a few years before becoming a full-time mother and part-time sales representative for Golden Rose Cosmetics.

I have worked for Mr. Wallace, who just turned seventy-two a few weeks ago, for almost fifteen years. He recently announced that he will retire at the end of this summer. It makes me wonder what will become of me when that happens, although I have been assured by our office manager that I will be given full-time paralegal work.

My position also puts me in