Entitled to Kill

by ACF Bookens

  Mart brushed her hair up off her forehead. “Oh yeah, we’re fine. I mean, mostly. I can’t find my keychain thingy to get us in. I thought I’d left it in the cup holder, but my toddler climbs around in here like it’s his jungle gym, and now, well . . .”

  Smart move to play the kid card, except of course for the lack of the car seat in the back. I hoped this wizard Mom wouldn’t notice.

  “Oh I know what you mean. My littlest ate one once. Here, use mine.” She passed her keychain out of the window, and I marveled yet again at cars that didn’t need keys in their ignitions.

  Mart waved the entire keychain in front of the small gray box by the gate, and presto, it opened right up. She handed the keys back and said, “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem.” Super Mom started to put up the window but then lowered it again. “Oh, and check the drawers in the refrigerator. It’s amazing what I’ve found there.”

  I laughed, and Mart gave her a thumbs up. We drove through the gate just as it started to swing shut again, and I thought about how I’d like to be friends with that woman.

  My attention was quickly drawn back to the task at hand when we pulled up in front of a beautiful house with a gorgeous stone façade. The three-car garage didn’t even seem big against the size of this massive specimen of home life, and I found myself slightly envious . . . until I saw the exact same house three doors down and then three doors after that. I just wasn’t a fan of cookie-cutter houses, even if they were beautiful. I expected Miranda Harris-Lewis wouldn’t be a fan of our little craftsman bungalow either. I figured that was fair.

  I snuck up to the garage and was grateful they had splurged on the doors with panes of glass in them. As soon as I looked in, I realized they splurged on a lot – those miniature Jeeps, two of them for the girls; bicycles that looked like they cost more than my entire wardrobe; and a very swanky and shiny SUV. But no Audi A8. We were good to go.

  I gave Mart the very subtle signal of a big “come on” wave, and we headed toward the front door. I wasn’t interested in pulling one over on Miranda. I figured the performance this jerk had put on to get her to marry him was enough duping for one lifetime. Instead, we were going in honest with an offer to help.

  My hope was that as the new people in town she might realize we don’t know the backstory but also that the reality of her situation was so obvious that even we knew. For whatever reason, I was often the person who others chose to talk to. Maybe it’s because I loved stories so much that even getting to listen to people talk about their lives was exciting to me. Or maybe I just had one of those faces. For whatever reason, I often knew people’s hardest moments and deepest shames. I hoped my listening gift would work now because I wanted to figure out who killed Huckabee Harris. But even more, I really wanted to help Miranda.

  We rang the bell, and I heard a tinkling sound like wind chimes inside. A few minutes later, the sound of little feet came through the door and then the door opened to Maisy and Daisy in pink, unicorn PJs. Their faces were covered in chocolate, and it looked like a brush hadn’t been put their hair in days. This was not a good sign.

  “Hi girls. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Harvey Beckett from—“

  “Oh we remember,” Daisy or Maisy said. There had to be a trick for keeping them straight, I just knew it. “From the bookstore.”

  “Well, okay, good. Actually, we’re here to see your mom. Is she available?”

  They looked at each other and then up at us. “She’s sick. She’ll be better this afternoon before Daddy comes home.”

  I looked at Mart and held back a gasp. “Girls, is she okay? Does she need help?”

  They shrugged, but something about their expressions – a mixture of concern and helplessness – made me think the actual answer was yes.

  Mart knelt down. “I’m Mart. Harvey’s best friend. Do you think you could do us a favor and go tell your mom we’re here and that we’d like to see her, that we can come to her if she wants?”

  They nodded and then ran up the wide staircase behind them.

  “Mart, this is terrible. Why aren’t those girls in school? What is going on?”

  My friend looked like she was going to cry, and I felt pretty close myself. But we kept it together and waited.

  A few minutes later, one of the girls came to the top of the stairs and said, “Mommy says you can come in. But only for a few minutes.”

  I sighed, stepped inside, and closed the door. So much for keeping an eye out for Rafe.

  We climbed to the top of the stairs and then followed Maisy or Daisy to a room at the end of the hall where the other sister was waiting. They swung the door open and stepped aside.

  Inside, I saw the most beautiful bedroom and the most forlorn person I’d ever seen. Miranda was in bed, and she looked like she’d been through three rounds with a prize fighter. Both eyes were black, her jaw was swollen, and on the tips of her arms, I could see hand prints.

  I took a deep breath, glanced at Mart, and then climbed into bed next to Miranda. Mart took the girls downstairs while asking about their favorite TV shows, and I slid until my shoulder rested against Miranda’s. Then, she dropped her head to my shoulder and began to sob.

  I put my arm around her carefully and let her cry. After a few minutes, she started to settle, and eventually, she sat up and looked at me. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’s okay. I have that effect on people.” I gave her a small smile.

  “You make them cry?” She smiled back.

  “Far too often, I’m afraid.” I turned to face her. “Miranda, are you okay? I mean really?”

  Tears pooled in her eyes again, and she shook her head. “But I guess you can see that, can’t you?”

  I looked at her bruised arms and battered face and nodded. “I can. And you don’t deserve this, Miranda.”

  She started to say something while shaking her head, but I put up my hand with the palm toward her.

  “Nope, there’s nothing, not a thing in the world you could have done or said that made you deserve this. You need to believe that.” I looked at her until her eyes met mine.

  “I know.” She sighed. “I mean part of me knows, but the other part – the part that loves him – wants to believe that I’m the problem.” Her eyes started to well up again. “Because if he’s the problem, then I love a monster.”

  I had never thought about domestic abuse that way, that it meant that you had to believe a horrible thing about someone you loved. I was no stranger to being treated terribly by men, but I had been fortunate to not have been a victim of actual abuse.

  I took her hands in mine. “I can’t even imagine how hard this is. I’m so sorry.”

  She pulled her eyes up from the bedspread and looked at me again. “Thank you.”

  I squeezed her fingers.

  “No really.” She grabbed my hands tightly. “A lot of people have offered to help me by giving us a place to stay or cash. But no one has ever come to my house before. Not a single person.”

  I must have looked puzzled because she continued, “The gate keeps people out, which is what Rafe wants of course. He likes our ‘privacy,’ he says.” I could hear what I hoped was a good, hard edge coming into her voice now. “But people are also scared of him . . . or maybe they’re scared of what he’ll do to me if he finds out they’re here.” She sat bolt upright then. “Oh no, the camera.”

  Her alarm startled me. “What camera?”

  “The doorbell camera. He’ll know you’ve been here. You have to leave. Now!” She jumped up from the bed, pulling me with her.

  “Wait, Miranda? What’s going on?”

  “He gets an alert anytime that doorbell camera is triggered. I’m not allowed to have visitors. Please, you have to go. It’s not safe.”

  I rushed into the hall after her while I tried to think of what was worse, Rafe coming home to find us here or Rafe coming home to find us already gone. Neither sounded great, but I fi
gured we might be able to actually protect Miranda if we were here.

  The two of us ran down the stairs into the living room where Mart and the girls were watching TV. “Maisy and Daisy, Daddy will be home any minute.”

  Those two little girls blanched and jumped to their feet, putting dolls into houses and toys into boxes with a speed that I could never have matched.

  “They have a doorbell cam,” I told Mart.

  “He will lose it if the house is a mess,” Miranda said as she ran her hand through her hair. “Oh my god. I have to fix myself up.”

  Mart grabbed the woman’s hand and dragged her upstairs. “I’ll help. No time for a shower, but we can work with your hair, and I’ve got the make-up skills of a Broadway artist.”

  Miranda in good hands, I knelt down and said to Maisy and Daisy. “What else?”

  They looked and each other and shouted, “The kitchen.”

  I jogged after them into the largest, most ornate kitchen I’d ever seen. It looked immaculate, but the girls must have seen it in a way I did not because they went right to work wiping counters and putting away dishes. I finally shouted, “How can I help?”

  Maisy/Daisy said, “Light the candle there. And wipe all the fingerprints off the fridge.” She tossed me a book of matches and a rag, and I did as I was told.

  The girls did one quick look around the room and nodded, and then I said, “Do you need to be dressed?”

  They shot up the stairs quick as lightning, and I sat on the bottom stair, trying to think. We had to have a reason for why we were there, a reason that wouldn’t make Rafe mad and would also justify our visit.

  I was at the edges of an idea when I heard the garage door open and four sets of feet thunder down the steps toward me. Miranda looked perfect, and the girls were adorable in leggings and sweaters with sparkly headbands over their mostly brushed hair. I pushed a stray lock under Daisy/Maisy’s headband as she passed.

  I pointed toward what looked to be a formal sitting room and said, “In there.” Then, I grabbed my purse where I’d set it by the front door and took out the gifts I’d brought for Maisy and Daisy. We had all just dropped into our seats, still breathing heavily, when a very thin white man in a deep charcoal suit and one silver earring barreled into the room.

  “What is going on here?” he boomed.

  I stood up and put on the biggest smile I could muster before extending my hand to this man. I hoped he couldn’t see it shaking. “Mr. Lewis,” I was banking on the idea that he hadn’t taken Miranda’s maiden name when they’d married, “I’m Harvey Beckett. I run the new bookstore in town. My clerk and I just stopped by to tell your family that we’d like to feature your daughters in a new ad campaign for the store. They are such delightful little girls, and we think they’d make great models to encourage other children to read.”

  Miranda looked positively terrified when I glanced at her, but she was smiling. The girls had a similar expression.

  I looked back at Rafe and shot out a prayer to whoever was listening. Please let him believe me. Rafe still looked angry, but somehow, I could tell the suspicion had fallen away. He bought it.

  “Your wife here kindly invited us in to explain so that she could get all the details to talk with you about them later.” I picked up the two Magic Tree House books I’d set on the coffee table. “Maisy and Daisy were in last week when Mrs. Lewis was running errands in town, and they mentioned they loved these books. So I brought a couple for them.” I prayed I hadn’t just caused more trouble by mentioning that Miranda had been in town, but he didn’t seem to be surprised, so I hoped I was okay.

  Mart stood, “Anyway, we were just going. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lewis.” She shook Miranda’s hand.

  I stepped to Miranda and shook her hand, too, slipping my business card with my cell number into her fingers. “When you guys have had time to discuss the details, please give me a call. No pressure and no expectations from us. Whatever you decide is just fine.” I backed away while I tried to assure Miranda with my expression that we weren’t abandoning her, just trying to keep her safe.

  Mart offered her hand to Rafe as she walked past, and he shook it before taking mine again. “Thank you, ladies. We don’t get many guests, but I appreciate your visit. We’ll talk it over and get back to you.”

  He walked us to the door while Miranda and the girls stayed behind. I hated leaving them, but I knew that pushing this situation was not wise . . . for any of us.

  Mart and I walked silently back to the car and got in. She carefully pulled out as I tried to contain the sobs that were threatening to explode. I had no doubt that man was watching us from the window, and I didn’t want to give him any reason to doubt our story.

  As we turned the corner, Mart gasped, and I doubled over. “Mart?! What do we do?”

  “I don’t know yet, Harvey. But something. We do something.”

  * * *

  On the way back to the store, I texted Sheriff Mason to ask him to come by. I had to report what I saw and ask his wisdom. I knew he wouldn’t do anything to put Miranda in harm’s way, and I really, really needed his advice. She could be permanently hurt if that kind of battery continued, and while I hadn’t seen any signs of physical assault against the girls, there was no way that kind of fear made for a safe living environment.

  When we walked in, Rocky pointed to a table she’d set up with shortbread, a thermos of coffee, and three chairs. “Cate texted me,” she said quietly.

  I checked in with Marcus, who was just fine, and dropped into the chair next to Mart. We sat in silence and took tiny nibbles from the cookies. I had put an extra dose of cream and sugar in my coffee. I needed fortification.

  By the time Sheriff Mason arrived, my nerves were less jangled, and I could take a deep breath again. Now, though, I was furious, so mad that I didn’t even let the sheriff sit down before I said, “You need to arrest Rafe Lewis. Today. He’s an abuser, and he’s beating his wife.”

  “You went to see her, didn’t you?” The sheriff’s voice sounded both sad and frustrated.

  “We did.” Mart was angry, too, but her voice was also very quiet. “We put her in danger, didn’t we?”

  Sheriff Mason sat down. “You did. But I know that wasn’t your intention. Rafe Lewis is a very violent man, and we have known for a long time that he was hitting Miranda. But she’s never pressed charges. The two times I’ve seen her in the hospital when she’s had broken bones so severe that Bear was legally obligated to report suspected domestic violence, she’s refused. We have tried, but unless we see him hitting her or she makes an official statement, I can do absolutely nothing.”

  I wanted to cry again. “I hear you, Sheriff. And I believe you, but we saw what he had done to her.”

  “What did you see, Harvey? Tell me. I do want to hear.” He was looking at me then, and I could see how angry and frustrated he was.

  “Two black eyes. Major bruises on her upper arms. A swollen jaw. And that doesn’t include what was underneath her clothes.” Mart sat forward. “I saw that. Her body is one big bruise, and I think she has a few broken ribs. It’s awful.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Did he seem to suspect why you were there?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mart said. “Harvey came up with a really plausible and innocuous reason for our visit.”

  I told Sheriff Tucker about our forthcoming media campaign where we hoped to featured Maisy and Daisy as our models. “He seemed to believe me.”

  “He probably would. He’s a narcissist. His family is, as he sees it, an accessory to him. You were smart to flatter him by praising the girls. But be careful. No more visits. He’s a suspicious SOB. Don’t press your luck.”

  I nodded. “We won’t. The way those girls reacted when they heard their father was coming home. It was bone-chilling. I don’t want to put them in any more danger.” Then I put my head down on my folded arms. “I’m so sorry. That was stupid.”

  The sheriff tousled the hair on the back
of my head. “Stupid, but loving. I’ll send an unmarked patrol car by a few times for the next couple of days. I don’t know that it’ll do any good, but maybe Miranda will see them and know that help is just outside.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  He headed toward the door but turned back long enough to say, “If you get the go ahead from him for the ad campaign, you know you have to do it, right?”

  “I do. Fortunately, my good idea for that situation is probably also a good idea for the shop.” How I’d pay for photographers and ad space I had no idea, but I was committed now. No way was I going to put the Harris-Lewis women in danger by flaking now.

  * * *

  Mart stayed at the store for the rest of the day to help Marcus, or so she said. But I figured she didn’t want to be alone at home, and I didn’t blame her. Our visit earlier had scared the life out of me, and I wanted the comfort of books, coffee, and good friends. We had our usual spattering of customers throughout the day, and when closing time came, all I wanted was a bowl of cereal, a hot bath, and some mindless TV – maybe The Great British Baking Show was on.

  I had just gotten through two of the three parts of my evening plan when my phone rang. It was Sheriff Tucker. “Can I come by, Harvey?”

  I looked down at my fluffy cow-print PJs and giant “Got Books?” T-shirt and shrugged. “Sure. I’ll have hot cocoa ready.” So much for learning how to make a cream cake using Mary Berry’s recipe.

  The sheriff looked harried when he came and fairly gulped the nearly boiling cup of hot cocoa when I offered it to him. “Whoa, slow down. You’ll burn your throat away.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. I needed a jolt. It’s been quite an evening.” He pointed to the couch. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Of course. You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he let out a hard breath. “Rafe Lewis was killed this afternoon.”