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“I just have a quick question. Did Andy have anything to do with the tennis team?”
“Oh God no. The social aspects of sports were beyond his abilities.”
“I see. So he wouldn’t have had any contact with the boys on the team or Coach Carrier.”
“Well, Mr. Carrier was Andy’s health teacher. He gave Andy the only A he ever got in all of high school.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I think I needed to know that.”
21
April 16, 1996
Tuesday evening
When I got home, I circled the block three times and then parked four blocks away on Ocean. Walking home, I kept my senses heightened while I thought about what to do.
At first glance, my leaving would make it a terrible time for Ronnie to buy a condo, I mean, co-op, but then when I thought about it, it was the perfect time. If he couldn’t handle the mortgages alone, he could get a roommate. Or he could upgrade the co-op, wait until it went condo, and then sell it for a big profit. Financially, Ronnie would be fine. There was always some trick he could pull out of his hat to make things work.
On the way up my front steps, my cellular phone chirped. I assumed it was Ronnie, telling me he was on his way home and asking if I wanted him to pick up some dinner—I did. I was thinking Mexican. When I said hello, there was a woman on the other end.
“Yes, hello. I got a strange call from Downey High School this afternoon. I’m told you want to talk to someone about Bernie Carrier.”
“I do yes. Do you know him?”
“I’m his wife. This has something to do with high school tennis?”
“Uh-yes. I’m writing a story.”
“Are you?”
I could tell she didn’t believe me. The only thing I had going for me was her curiosity. I knew better than to satisfy that over the phone. “I’d like to meet you, and maybe your husband, tell you more about the story I want to write.”
“I’m sure you would.”
She left a long silence. I suspect she hoped I’d provide more information, that I’d pitch myself, that I’d beg. I kept my mouth shut.
Finally, she asked, “Where are you?”
“Long Beach.”
“I live in Signal Hill. Can you come over now?”
She gave me the address and I promised to be there in twenty minutes. I turned around and walked back to the rental car.
Signal Hill is a small city surrounded by Long Beach. There’s not much to it, you drive north on Cherry Avenue and up a condominium covered hill. At the top of that is a small observation park with fabulous views. Then, the road descends the other side of the hill and before you know it, you’ve left Signal Hill.
Mrs. Carrier’s condo was on the cleverly named Hill Street and climbed upwards in steps. Her step was near the top. I parked and found the entrance to the topmost part of the condo. The name on the door was Blanchard, something I planned to ask her to explain.
I have to say, I was completely shocked when she opened the door. She was young, in her mid-thirties. Very young to be Coach Carrier’s wife. She wore her hair in a boyish pixie cut and no makeup.
Not believing my eyes, I asked, “Is Mrs. Carrier in?”
She laughed. “I’m Sammy Blanchard. AKA Mrs. Carrier. Well, Mrs. Carrier number two. Bernie’s first wife lives out in Norwalk.”
“You don’t use his name?”
“I don’t. I prefer my maiden name.”
