“Laurel had a nursing degree from San Jose State, right?”
“Yes. She worked at a hospital in Los Angeles for a few years while Roy studied dentistry at USC. But after they moved back here and the girls were born, she gave it up. Frankly, I was surprised that she chose to have children; Laurel possessed no more maternal instinct than I.”
“Her daughters remember her as a good mother.”
“No doubt she was. She had the children, and they deserved a proper raising. It was her responsibility to provide that. We Yardley women live up to our responsibilities.”
“But in the end Laurel
“She would have, had she not died.”
“You’re convinced she’s dead?”
“What else? Laurel must have been a victim of random violence; that’s the only possibility. She never would have left her girls. Until she disappeared she was never separated from them for more than a night or two, except when Cousin Josie was dying of cancer. Then she went to stay in San Francisco for a while, but she called home twice a day, sometimes more often.”
I made a couple of notes, then asked, “What about the Greenwoods’ marriage? Was it a good one?”
“Of course. They had the girls, and Roy had his dental practice. They were active in their church and had a nice group of friends. There was no trouble in that marriage.”
Interesting that she thought I was implying there had been trouble; the way she’d jutted out her chin when she spoke raised a red flag for me. I hesitated, framing my next words carefully.
“But every marriage has its strains from time to time, when one partner is unhappy for reasons unrelated to the other. Or when there’s a difference of opinion about something major.”
“Well, I’ve never married, so I wouldn’t know about that, now would I?”
“You were close to the family; you might’ve picked up on something-”
“I was not all that close to them before my sister disappeared. Laurel was nearly ten years younger than I, and she’d spent years away from home. When she returned to Paso Robles, her time was devoted to her children, and I was busy with a highly demanding career. My parents and I got together with them for the holidays and family birthdays, but I didn’t really know Laurel or Roy or the children. After my mother and father passed away I saw even less of them.” Anna Yardley’s mouth pulled taut. “Of course, that changed afterwards. Roy needed me to help raise Jennifer and Terry. I wasn’t happy about the responsibility, but it was my duty. No one else was going to do it.”
No, warm and fuzzy wasn’t Aunt Anna’s thing.
I said, “Jennifer tells me you might have some of Laurel’s belongings.”
“A few, yes. Some mementos, her postcard collection, some letters. I took them when Roy… started getting rid of her things. I’ve never looked at any of them, but I thought the girls might want them someday. They’ve never asked, though.”
“You say Roy started getting rid of Laurel’s things. I understand from Jennifer that he burned her paintings only days after she disappeared.”
“… Well, yes, he did. The man was distraught, not himself at all. Afterward, he regretted his actions.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. As I said, we weren’t close. But I could sense his regret.”
“Do you have any idea why he destroyed the paintings so soon after Laurel’s disappearance? What might have triggered it?”
“Roy had been… drinking a good deal that day. I suppose in his inebriated state he resented the paintings. After all, it was Laurel’s going off to paint that proved to be her undoing.”
“I wonder if I might see the items you saved.”
“They’re in the attic. I’ll have to hunt for them. If I drag them down, they’re not going back; you can take them to Jennifer and let her dispose of them if she wants.”
“I’m sure she’d like to have them.”
“Well, I can’t get to it today. How long will you be here?”
“At least till tomorrow night. Why don’t I call you?”
Anna Yardley nodded and stood, looking pointedly toward the front door. The interview was over.
Three hours later I was sitting on the balcony of my room at the Oaks Lodge, a newish, rambling resort hotel at the north end of town, with a main building containing a bar and restaurant and several guest wings set on large, lushly landscaped grounds. The temperature was still in the high eighties, and I’d changed to shorts and a tee and had a glass of cool white wine at hand. Spread on the small table in front of me were the notes I’d taken after playing the tapes of my interviews with Laurel Greenwood’s pastor and the man who had printed her greeting cards, as well as Roy Greenwood’s former dental assistant. They’d added little to the picture I’d already formed of Laurel.
The pastor, Bill Price of St. John’s Lutheran Church, had spoken of Laurel with enthusiasm undimmed by the passage of time. He remembered that she had contributed much of her time and energy to the church’s youth committees and had done the artwork for posters for various fund-raising events. “She no longer practiced nursing,” he told me, “but she often made herself available to accompany our older members to medical appointments and aided them in communicating with their doctors. It was a great tragedy when we lost her.” What did he think had happened to Laurel? “I suspect she is in God’s hands.”
Dean Sherman, owner of Sherman’s Printing, had enjoyed working with Laurel. Her illustrations were top quality, and she was open to technical suggestions about printing the cards. “She wasn’t like most artists; didn’t have a temperamental bone in her body. Had a nice little business going, and if she hadn’t died, it would’ve continued to grow. She wasn’t going to be another Hallmark, but she’d’ve made a nice living.” So he thought she was dead? “Of course. I know there were a lot of theories going around after she disappeared, but that’s all they were-theories.”
Lana Overland, the former dental assistant, had liked Laurel. “I liked her a lot, in fact. In some professional offices, you get these wives who’re always calling up, always dropping by to check on things. Not Laurel. She had her own career, was very self-sufficient. Didn’t bother Roy with the little stuff, like problems at home or with the kids.” How had Roy dealt with Laurel’s disappearance? “He was very sad for a long time. Angry, too. You can understand that; he’d had this great life, and all of a sudden it was taken from him. After a while he kind of evened out, but then he was like this empty shell, and nothing could fill it, ever.” What did she think had happened to Laurel? “Foul play, most definitely, and a shame it happened to such a great wife and mother.”
Impossibly perfect, that was the consensus on Laurel. But hadn’t she ever been derelict in her duties for the church? Missed a committee meeting? Forgotten some elderly parishioner who needed a ride to the medical clinic? Hadn’t she ever argued with the printer about the weight of the card stock or the quality of the ink? Failed to pay her bill on time? Hadn’t she ever interrupted one of Roy’s surgeries to tell him the washing machine was broken? Called at an awkward time to ask him to bring home a quart of milk? Apparently not.
But then, memories are colored by the passage of time, especially if someone has met with a tragedy. Little annoyances fade, quarrels are forgotten, minor lapses are forgiven. The last three people I’d spoken with were really very peripheral to Laurel’s life; perhaps her best friend, Sally Timmerman, whom I was later meeting for dinner at the lodge’s restaurant, could reveal more of the woman behind the perfect facade.
“Laurel a saint? You’re kidding, of course,” Sally Timmerman said.
“That’s more or less how most people I’ve talked with have described her.”
“I guess an untimely demise confers a sort of sanctity upon one, although I’ve never known why.”
Timmerman was a short, plump woman in her mid-fifties, with close-cropped white-blonde hair and a round, smooth-skinned face that belied her years. From my background information on her, I knew that she was an English teacher at Paso Robles High School and had known Laurel Greenwood nearly her whole life. The two had met in second grade when Sally’s family had moved south from Salinas, and had quickly become inseparable. Together they’d gone off to college at San Jose State, and when Laurel married Roy upon graduation, Sally was her maid of honor. Two years later, Laurel stood up for Sally at her marriage to her high school sweetheart, Jim Timmerman. The couples socialized frequently, and Sally and Laurel apparently had remained close until the day Laurel disappeared.
