The Julian Joke

By RT Shoemake

A tragic loss...
A near disaster...
A prophetic dream...
Eric Wayne Elliot is inadvertently about to begin a journey that may offer him either another chance at romance, or a violent death. The twisted route eventually requires him to expose a sordid conspiracy by the powerful and morally corrupt police chief, in order to save his own life and the life of the woman he has come to love. The question is: can Eric Elliot solve this puzzle called...The Julian Joke?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penhall Publishing
• Release date: Jul 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985739348

Book preview

The Julian Joke

_________

RT Shoemake

BolaBooks International

The Julian Joke - 2nd Edition

BolaBooks International

Smashwords Edition

Penhall Publishing

Copyright © 2000 Robert T. Shumate

ISBN-10: 0985739347

ISBN-13: 978-0-9857393-4-8

Fiction - General

Fiction - Suspense

Library of Congress Number: 870-527

Editor: Lindsay Penhall Haley

Cover Design: Lindsay Penhall Haley - InterstellarGraphics.com

Photography: Rosie Lindsey - cover photo of woman

Cruise ship image is public domain.

Word count: 89,406

For information concerning this book, please contact:

RT Shoemake

3100 Dartmouth Dr.

Plano, TX. 75075-7902

[phone]

[e-mail]

This book is also available in print edition at Amazon.com, and at the author’s website:

www.BobbyCharles.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

for Sue...

Table of Contents

1 The Goodbye

2 The Reminiscence

3 The Enigma

4 The Morning

5 The Neighbor

6 The Obsession

7 The Attempt

8 The Surprise

9 The Return

10 The Call

11 The Meeting

12 The Fear

13 The Mistake

14 The Discovery

15 The Getaway

16 The Hideaway

17 The Depraved

18 The Chance

19 The Pacifica

20 The Sea

21 The Searching

22 The Desperation

23 The Destination

About the Author

1

(back to top)

The Goodbye

The husky growl of the sleek Porsche Carrera convertible is rhapsodic to Eric Elliot as he nudges the accelerator, sending his prized automobile smoothly onto California Highway 154 towards Santa Barbara. Even the cold rain of early February pelting his windshield cannot dampen his relieved feeling of at last being alone with his thoughts after such a trying day.

Tugging at the top of his necktie, Eric chooses only to loosen it rather than to remove it altogether, while unfastening the heavily starched collar of his white shirt. Although he does not actually know it, he is leaving the tie on out of reverence. He unbuttons the coat of his dark blue suit allowing his rain-drenched jacket to hang free on him in hopes that some of the wetness may go away.

Yes, what a day indeed for thirty-eight year old tall, very good-looking, Eric Wayne Elliot. Eric Elliot, the angular young man with the dark complexion and remarkably dark chestnut hair. Eric Elliot, the very driven young architect. Eric Elliot, the widower. Strange, but this is the first moment he has thought of himself in that way: a widower. After all, he has only been one four days, and a thing like this takes a little getting used to.

Eric soon finds it more and more difficult to keep his mind on his driving. Perhaps, he begins to think to himself, he should have allowed the funeral home to send its family car to pick him up as the funeral director had advised. This would have spared him the trip home alone. But, that all seemed so morbid at the time. And the forty-five minute drive down 154 from the cemetery near Los Olivitos to their, now only his, home near Goleta, may help get his mind off his sadness. It does not. Not only does it fail to take his mind off the funeral, but the drive is now giving him too much time alone, time to think, time to dwell on Belinda, his wife of sixteen years, and the horrible way God chose to take her.

Eric tries his best to remember only the good times they shared. But as the rain gets worse so does his mood and he can only picture the last few years of Belinda's life. And more specifically, Eric recalls those final four months Belinda lay comatose in the Intensive Care Unit of Santa Barbara Memorial Hospital.

What a horrendous disease, he thinks again, trying desperately to remember the exact name Dr. Walter Phillips gave it. He tries his damnedest to recollect that term the doctor used. It’s as if he must be able to recite on demand the long technical name of that difficult to pronounce ailment. What was it again? he wonders, scouring the innermost recesses of his mind. Suppose someone should inquire of him what his wife died from, he ponders.

He will not be able to tell them exactly what it was. He is obsessed by this and once more probes his memory.

Eric sits behind the wheel, driving numbly, soaked to the bone from the pouring rain at the graveside service. Still, he tries to remember the specific name of the malady. It does not seem to matter that Dr. Phillips told him how rare this disease is. Eric already understands more than he will ever want to know about this rare, neurological disease related to a virulent form of multiple sclerosis. But he still feels the need to know precisely what it is called,

The doctor correctly predicted the slow deterioration in her condition. She was an invalid, a virtual quadriplegic, the past two years. But even Dr. Phillips could not foresee the eventual blood clot rendering Belinda comatose for weeks before she passed.

At last the name of his wife's rare illness comes just as he is turning up the speed of the windshield wipers. The name of Belinda's fatal condition, he repeats incessantly. He does not want to forget it again. Eric tries spelling it but soon gives up. At least he knows the name.

Eric observes the passing motorists on the northbound side, most with their lights on due to the downpour. He feels another brief moment of accomplishment remembering how he tried his best to care for Belinda in her condition. He recalls those many times he would lay out a blanket on the beach before carrying her to it. They would watch the waves roll in, hoping the surf would impact the nearby rocks causing the salty spray to touch their faces. This brings to mind as well long drives with Belinda in the breathtaking California wine country of the Ojai Valley, a place she loved so dearly, the very country of her youth, the very country where she went to her rest today.

But somehow Eric cannot shake a feeling he has kept locked away for a long time, a deep down unwanted feeling.., a feeling of guilt. This unwanted feeling has nothing whatever to do with his care of Belinda during her illness. He gave her his utmost care. It somehow runs deeper than that. Though he can never really put a finger on the reason for the feeling, it still bothers him. Eric knows that he does not feel this way because she was ill and he wasn't and not because he didn't love her; he did love Belinda. After all, they were married almost sixteen years, and they did love each other. There was something else on his mind though. Were we in love? Eric asks himself.

What a time for a question like this to cross his already troubled mind. At any rate, he cannot allow a thought like that to tarry too long, and he does not. We must have been very much in love, he hears himself say aloud before finishing his speech to himself. Wealthy? By no means. Happy? Sure, nearly always.

Still, why these thoughts? Why these doubts — now of all times?

Fact was, for their entire married life Eric had dismissed those feelings of uncertainty as, What most married people probably feel from time to time. And yet he was never sure — never completely. But Eric never thought of them again when Belinda's illness occurred. This is the first time in years any such thoughts have surfaced. Eric has completely devoted himself to his wife's well being.

As these thoughts roll past him, so does the swifter traffic on Highway 154. Eric blinks hard. Getting rid of a tear, perhaps, or just some leftover rain from the services that ended over an hour ago? Eric, himself, is not sure.

Eric grips the wheel a bit tighter now. He's thinking, hoping he did all the right things at the funeral, as if strict protocol for such occasions must be observed. Everyone Belinda and Eric had known was there: family, friends, and people from Eric's business. Still, why should he worry about perfection at a funeral? What difference did it make now anyway?

These thoughts clank through his head, however, as he tries to remember everyone and everything in detail from the services. Eric, rubbing his moist forehead, begins to recall the melancholy events of the day. He starts with his arrival at the little Unity Church near Los Olivitos where Belinda's family had been members since her childhood. The brief service inside the chapel was conducted by the church pastor, followed by a slightly longer one at the gravesite nearby. Eric's mind focuses on those somber moments at the cemetery.

Belinda's family and closest friends are seated under an olive-green canopy provided by the funeral home. Others huddle as close as possible under black umbrellas, in a vain attempt to evade the misting, soaking, drizzle of the early afternoon,

Eric, standing at the foot of the pewter-toned casket with the small brass crucifix on top, hears the reverend speak those last words of goodbye. Eric selects one yellow rose from the spray adorning his wife's coffin. He places it on top of the crucifix before turning to help his mother-in-law to her feet. The reverend comes to comfort her and to assist Eric.

Eric begins to make his way slowly from under the canopy with his mother-in-law holding onto his arm as his best friend and office manager, Phil Comstock, greets him. The reverend tells Eric that he will assist Mrs. Scott, Belinda's mother, to the family car a few feet away. Eric thanks him, saying he will only be a moment.

Phil places his arm tightly around his friend and boss. Phil is a head shorter, and a few pounds heavier, than Eric. The small amount of gray in his black hair seems like more. These strands corkscrew from his scalp no matter how he tries to subdue them. This, and the slight paunch around his middle, causes Phil to appear a few years older than his actual age, one year Eric's junior. Listen Eric, says Phil, if there's anything you need, give me a shout; I'm just a phonecall away. And another thing, I do not expect to see you in that office for the rest of this week at least. After everything you've been through, you're gonna need some serious R and R, so take all the time you need, Eric. You know Marie and I can muddle through for a while. And speaking of that assistant of yours. Watch out, here she comes. Phil pats Eric on the back before walking away.

Marie Tate, a petite thirty-one year old, unmarried woman, has been with The Planne Shoppe, Eric's architectural firm, since he opened his doors twelve years earlier. This was long before he started to achieve the success he now enjoys.

Marie is a pretty girl, not a knockout by any means, but pretty. She is a very shapely five foot two inch woman possessing a tiny button nose — her best feature. She wears a beige, light wool skirt and jacket, complimenting her short brown hair and brown eyes.

Eric knows that Marie cares for him a great deal, in more than a business sense. He also feels she is the type of woman who would never let anyone know as long as he was a married man.

Marie makes her way to him, trying to avoid as much mud as possible. Eric summons up a smile.

Eric, are you okay? She lightly touches his arm.

Yeah, thanks Marie. It's been a couple of rough days, but I'll make it, Eric says, his smile still present. Thanks for asking, and Marie, if I don't get a chance today to thank everybody from the office for coming, will you tell them for me? And please thank all of them for the beautiful flowers too. I really appreciate it, especially the ones you sent. It's nice of you to remember how much Belinda loved mums; they were her favorites.

Sure, Marie says, holding onto a Kleenex. How's Mrs. Scott taking it? Marie asks, referring to Belinda's mother, what with Mr. Scott dying just last year and all: it all has to have been rough on her.

Yes, it has been. I'll be sure to give her your condolences.

Marie takes Eric's hands in hers. I don't need to tell you that if there's anything at all I can do, I mean, well you know me, I'm up all hours of the night. That is — Marie seems not to want to say anything that might be misconstrued, so she simply says, Oh Eric just let me know how you're doing. I know you depend on Phil a lot, but if you call his house and he's not home or something, well, you know I usually am.

Eric, wanting to keep the conversation casual as well, replies: Don't worry, I'll call one of you guys, you know that.

At this point, Eric has just one thing on his mind, returning to the church so he can get started home. He wants to put as much of this day as possible out of his mind, at least for a while.

Earlier, Eric rode the short distance from the church to the gravesite in the funeral home's family car with Belinda's mother and sister, as well as her sister's husband. So Eric's next task was to locate the funeral director and obtain his assistance in getting them all into that car for the brief trip back to the church. There, Eric can pick up his car, and the limo can take Belinda's family to their homes.

The trip back to the church was very sad, and though Belinda's mother was inconsolable, there was one thing Eric wanted very much to tell her before they parted at the church,

Mrs. Scott, I'm so very sorry. I know there's not much that can be said right now, but I have to tell you this one thing, and that's how much I appreciate all the help you and Mr. Scott gave Belinda and me when we first married. If it weren't for the job at your husband's real estate company, Belinda and I would have really had a hard time making ends meet in those days. He took me on as an agent even though I knew from nothing about the business. But even more than that, Mrs. Scott, I would've liked to tell him, and you too, how much I appreciate your understanding when I decided to pursue my real dream — that of becoming an architect.

Mrs. Scott says nothing, merely taking Eric's hands in hers, smiling, as tears run down her face.

Eric grips the wheel of the Porsche, but his thoughts remain in that black limousine.

That is until — Waaaa... Waaaa!

Eric is rudely jolted back to the present by the bellow of a semi truck's chrome dual horns atop the driver's cab. Eric swerves back into his own lane. It seems Eric had unknowingly drifted into the big rig's lane while hypnotized by memories. After correcting the misguided Porsche, Eric, for the most part, rights his mind too. He begins recalling some of the good days, those days of hard work and hard fun shared by his wife and him. Soon, the day he and Belinda moved into their dream house in the mountains just north of Santa Barbara flows into his mind. He and his wife had worked tirelessly designing it and took such joy furnishing their new home just the way they wanted it Belinda's touch evident in the decor, Eric's in the architecture. But their dream house became a reality almost too late for Belinda to enjoy. Still, Eric is grateful for the time they did have there together, and begins to experience remorse for any doubts he had a few minutes ago concerning his marriage.

Eric feels he has his mind headed in the right direction at last; unfortunately, his mud-spattered convertible is not. Damn! his curse indicating he has somehow taken the business route off highway 154, when he swerved to miss that truck, he figures. This road will take him directly through the small community of Miracola, California, only a couple of miles off the main highway. It is not a bad mistake, and will add just a few minutes to the trip home. And anyway, a bright sun is starting to peak through the afternoon clouds. So the short drive past the row of new businesses located in the revamped old brick buildings of Miracola just may be pleasant after all. Eric even manages a smile when he lowers his window, getting a whiff of the fresh air created by the early spring rain. He rears back in his tan, leather, bucket seat, resting a damp elbow out the window as he nears the main drag of businesses.

The once quiet village of Miracola is today a bustling town. It has been transformed only in the last few years into a Mecca for the upscale yuppie folks of the Lake Cachuma area. The little town is now rife with coffee shops, trendy bistros, and consignment stores crammed with many items, most priced well above their actual worth.

It is a pretty town, and Eric remembers the day he brought Belinda here to see what she called, the cute little stores. He saddens a bit knowing she was too ill to get out of the car for a walk that day. But his mood is lightened, somewhat, knowing that she did enjoy that Sunday drive through Miracola.

On his right, up ahead, Eric spots a fashionable brass and glass style restaurant where, on another occasion, he took a client, a prospective homebuyer. He smiles, knowing that meal may have been what clinched the deal on the following day. The name of the restaurant: Jacque's.

Approaching Jacque's, Eric flicks off his wipers. Though the rain stopped ten minutes before, the streets are still quite slippery. Eric looks ahead. About half a block up, a signal light is about to change in his favor. He knows this, because he sees the amber light for the cross traffic. He looks in all directions — no traffic. It is almost as if someone reserved this scenic little diversion through Miracola just for him. So, feeling just a bit better about life in general, Eric downshifts, hurtling the Porsche toward the intersection. Timing the signal change perfectly, Eric deftly negotiates the right turn, knowing that turn will send him back to the main highway, and home. He allows himself a smile, thinking, This is almost fun.

He thrusts a foot onto the accelerator again only to encounter, to his absolute horror, a person walking hastily across the street. The person is a good thirty feet from the designated crosswalk, and directly in the path of his car!

Holy shit! Eric yells, slamming both feet onto the brake pedal. He is not buckled in. His forehead bangs off the steering wheel. The car comes to a sliding halt on the rain-slick pavement. His bumper rests mere inches from the person standing directly in front of his vehicle.

Eric immediately regains his senses as the bright afternoon sun smacks him squarely in the face. It causes him to squint painfully as he strains to see if he has struck this reckless individual.

Time stands still as he peers through his windshield at the unknown jaywalker. His feet are still mashing the brake pedal with much more force than necessary.

My God, Eric hears himself say. It's a woman.

The woman turns her head slightly to the left.

The woman looks at him; at least, she seems to be looking at him. It is difficult for him to know for sure because a pair of dark, wrap-around sunglasses obscuring the exact object of her attention. A glint of reflected sunlight from those glasses hits Eric smartly in the eyes, the brilliant California sun in his face further hindering his vision. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he makes out a dark scarf tied tightly under her chin, a lock of refulgent golden hair wafting across her forehead. An ankle-length raincoat with the collar turned up and boots of some sort conceal all else of this foolhardy woman from Eric's sight.

He stares blankly at her.

She stares at him without expression, unmoving, unyielding. Yet somehow Eric senses more in this face, a face for the most part hidden.

But, more of what does he see? An answer comes, but he does not welcome it.

Her look? A look of fear, Eric senses. Yet, not fear from being almost killed an instant earlier, more a look of a foreboding, of vulnerability. Eric does not know why, but this is what he perceives.

His heart continues to pound from the harsh reality that he has come so close to seriously injuring or killing someone. Still, he cannot help being captivated by the beauty of the woman. But how can he know if she is beautiful or not? After all, he actually sees very little of her. Most of the woman's face, and all of her body, is concealed by clothing, and the blinding sun. Yet, Eric sees more than the obvious. He sees confusion... pain... allure.

God, I guess I'm delirious, he blurts aloud.

Regaining some composure, Eric thrusts his head out his window to see if the woman has been injured. But just as suddenly as she appeared in front of his car, she is gone. Eric glances across the street, only to see the lady vanishing into one of Miracola's many antique shops.

He sits a long moment. Only now does he realize that his hands are trembling uncontrollably. The only way he can stop the shaking is to take firm hold of the steering wheel. He does so, and slowly pulls away from the scene of the near tragedy, pausing once to lower his sun visor.

As his heart again fills with sorrow for Belinda, Eric leaves all thoughts of Miracola, California behind him.

Eric Wayne Elliot is on his way home.

2

(back to top)

The Reminiscence

VALLEJO VERDE DRIVE - NEXT EXIT

That big green road sign is a welcome sight to an emotionally drained Eric Elliot as he steers into the right lane of highway154 before taking the off ramp service road. An immediate left turn onto Vallejo Verde Drive, and soon he is winding his way into the undulating hills north of Goleta, California.

He travels about three miles more, at last reaching a well-maintained, hard-packed, dirt road leading off Vallejo Verde. A right turn will lead to his destination less than a mile ahead. The dirt road has no name, simply a neatly printed sign that reads, Private Property. He knows that soon he will be at his doorstep as he wheels carefully around the final turn.

On his right lies a most extraordinary panorama of the valley stretching far below, with the town of Goleta beautifully nestled at the base. The Pacific Ocean is visible to the south, that is, when the undulating hills allow it.

On his left, a thicket of trees ascends a good-sized hill across the road from Eric's home. A dense tangle of thorns and thistles protrudes from its rocky surface. The unsightly foliage reaches distastefully to the summit more than a hundred feet above. But, as Eric and Belinda discussed years earlier when they were evaluating the area before building their home, this unkempt terrain could provide privacy. They felt no one would be tempted to build on such rugged land. And even this imperfection is appealing in its own way, a stark contrast to the beauty of the grassy hills and sprawling valley to his right.

Nearing his house, he recalls the time he and Belinda were in search of just the right place for their new home. A trace of a smile comes as Eric drifts back to that warm mid-August day several years ago. He recalls driving the hills with Belinda.

Eric, I believe we took a wrong turn back there.

And they had accidentally turned onto this small, unnamed road while attempting to find a shortcut back to the main highway. They had also failed to notice the private property sign when they happened upon this area.

Eric can still see the look on Belinda's face the moment she stepped from the car to gaze at this parcel of land. The landscape was ablaze with native wildflowers on its gently sloping hillside that, after descending gracefully to the rear of the property, dived steeply into the waiting valley below. This valley reaches all the way to Goleta, then Santa Barbara itself before fading into the ocean. They saw no houses anywhere, except for the distant ones across the valley, a few miles away in Goleta.

They were both still admiring the land when Belinda said, Oh Eric, down there.

He turned his attention to where his wife was looking, a few hundred yards up the road. He noticed a lovely, reddish-brick house with manicured shrubbery and well kept flowerbeds.

Then they observed an older woman standing in her yard staring back at them. There seemed to be a man, an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair, by her side.

Eric and Belinda instinctively waved to them and the people waved back.

Well, they seem friendly enough, Eric said. Honey, if you really like it here, why don't we go speak with them? Perhaps they can tell us the person we can contact about this property. Do you really like it that much?

Yes, Eric, I do, I really do, Belinda replied with such enthusiasm that they immediately jumped into the car and made the short trip to the house up the road.

Getting out of the car, Eric and Belinda introduced themselves, making a brief apology for the intrusion. They politely explained their interest in the property down the way before inquiring about its owner.

The lady, a plumpish woman appearing to be in her late sixties, introduced herself as Mrs. Lawrence Ehrenberg. She then introduced her husband, Dr. Lawrence Ehrenberg, a distinguished looking man probably in his seventies, possessing a snow-white goatee and moustache. He appeared rather gaunt, perhaps from the illness that was