by Greta Boris
She dried the pot, set it on the kitchen table, and got a pen and pad of sticky notes from the desk. Thanks for the soup! Hit the spot. Of course, if she'd poisoned it, Mimi would know it hadn't hit the spot as soon as she read the note. Abby shook her head. Most likely she'd wasted a perfectly good batch of chicken soup. But letting her father eat it wasn't a chance she'd been willing to take.
The chirp of an automatic key interrupted her thoughts. She moved to the window. Evan, backpack thumping, jogged to the car. Mimi, her steps quick and short, followed closely. Chad, moving only slightly quicker than the sloth Abby'd seen at the San Diego Zoo, dragged behind them. She had the feeling their gaits were examples of how they approached life. Evan charged. Mimi walked with purpose and efficiency. Chad dug in his heels.
She had no idea how long Mimi would be gone. The night she and Bradley had dropped off the soup, Mimi had mentioned she was going to the Mission one morning this week to do some weeding. It would be wonderful if this was the morning. But Abby had zoned out several times during that conversation, and didn't remember when it was.
Abby itched to race over to their house. But made herself wait. What if they'd forgotten something and came back? She had to be careful. When ten minutes had finally passed, she walked outside carrying the pot.
The sun warmed her head and shoulders, but as soon as she plunged under the oaks, the morning chill enveloped her. She hurried to the house. The porch steps creaked under her feet as she climbed. At the top, she pushed open the screen door. The musty scent of vacation beach houses, hot summer days, and childhood rolled over her in a wave of nostalgia. An old ache for her brother, for lost friendships, and lost innocence made it hard to breathe for a moment.
She and Lily Hartman had been best friends once. This porch had been their schoolhouse, white-picket-fence cottage, or haunted mansion, depending on the game. But that was a long time ago.
She set the pot on a side table between two wicker chairs. Through the front door window, she saw the hall that led to the kitchen. If she wanted to find traces of the girl from the Mission, or clues the Jacksons had known her, she didn't think she'd find them here. Their home was too visible. Too many people came and went. If the girl had been here, someone would have seen her.
The screen door slapped closed behind Abby. When she reached the grass, she pivoted and faced the squat old house. Where should she begin? What was she looking for? Sylla had mentioned they believed the girl had been kept against her will, not fed properly, not given medical care. That would require a prison of some kind.
The large garden shed behind the house seemed like a possibility. Abby circled the property and let herself into the backyard through a gate. A flood of memories threatened to wash away her purpose. She closed her eyes for a moment and forced her mind to the present.
She opened them again and took in the sight before her. The garden was a shabbier version of its former self, but here and there small beds had been recently turned, planted, and labeled in Carlos's neat hand. Pride warmed her. If anyone could bring this yard to life, he would.
She walked the serpentine paths through the various herb and flower beds to the back fence. The shed was smaller than she remembered. Probably because she'd been smaller herself the last time she'd seen it. Its redwood walls had darkened to a deep gray long ago. Dirt coated its square-paned windows. Cobwebs hung from the roof.
Abby sidled up to the window with the least spider webs, and rubbed the glass with the sleeve of her shirt and peered inside. The visibility was about the same as that at the bottom of a pond when the silt had been stirred. When her eyes adjusted to the murk, she made out the outline of a bench against one wall. Beneath it were pots in various shapes and sizes, stacked one inside the other. Shelves holding bags and bottles of what must have been fertilizers and bug killers lined another wall.
There was barely enough room for one person to stand and work inside. Certainly no room for someone to lie down. Abby backed up and looked at the door jamb. The layer of dirt coating it didn't appear to have been touched in months. The girl couldn't have been kept here.
Abby wiped her hands on her back pockets, and stepped away from the shed. She turned and looked at the house again. There wasn't a basement, only a crawl space. She knew that, because Scottie and Tomas, Lily's brother, had tried to get her to wiggle into it to retrieve a ball once. She was the smallest, and the only one who'd fit. She'd poked her head under, but that was as far as she'd gotten.
Tight spaces never bothered her. It wasn't that. It was the army of spiders hidden in the dark recesses she didn't like. A city of webs swung from the underside of the house.
A breeze blew up, and the sun hid behind a cloud. Abby shivered. She'd better hurry. Mimi could return any minute.
Abby went around the far side of the house where the bedrooms were located. As she walked past them, she glanced through the windows. Although she didn't think the girl could have been kept in the house, there might be some clue as to whether the family knew her or not.
The first room was decorated in a sports motif, bed thrown together, a gym bag tossed in a corner. The next had to be Chad's. Posters of bands hung on the walls. A black quilt spilled from an unmade bed. Dirty clothes hid most of the area rug. There was nothing unusual in either room, at least nothing she could see from the window.
The third bedroom, Abby knew, was the master. But the shade was down, obstructing her view. Frustrated, she turned from the house and looked over the rest of the property.
To the right of the house was an old detached garage. She crossed the pebbled distance and peered into a dingy window. A wall of boxes met her gaze. That explained why the Jacksons didn't park inside. They must still be unpacking.
She moved around the back of the garage, headed for its far side. If she remembered correctly, there was another window there. As she rounded the corner, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. Mimi. Abby's heart thudded in her chest.
How was she going to explain her presence? She could say when she'd put the soup pot on the porch, she'd seen. . . An interesting bird? A raccoon? A coyote? She'd gone to investigate.
But why make up stories? It would be better to hunker down, out of sight, and wait until she heard Mimi go inside. She slid to a crouch, and leaned against the garage wall.
A moment later, footsteps clacked on the porch stairs and the screen door screeched on its hinges. She waited two more minutes, then crept to the front of the garage. Should she make a run for their shared drive? It was the longer route, but otherwise she'd have to cross in front of the Jackson's house to get home.
Before she could make up her mind a silver import pulled up next to Mimi's car. Abby ducked out of sight. A car door slammed.
"Good timing. I just got home," Mimi said.
"You said eight-thirty, so here I am." A contralto voice answered her. Rosie, her interior designer.
"There are two possibilities in the last sample group you brought. I can't decide which I like best. You're going to have to help me."
"I'm glad it's only two." The woman laughed.
"Coffee?"
Before the contralto could say yes or no, Abby's phone sang out the guitar riff that meant Carlos was calling. It vibrated deep in her pocket. Why hadn't she put it on silent? Why had she brought it at all? Her fingers fumbled with the buttons. The riff stopped mid-note, but the damage had been done. A moment later Mimi and Rosie appeared at the edge of the garage with curious expressions on their faces.
"Abby. What are you doing?" Mimi said.
"A coyote." She stammered out the word.
"You saw a coyote? In broad daylight?" Rosie's eyebrows lifted.
"Why on earth would you follow it?" Mimi said. "I've lost so many cats to them, I've given up on pets."
The other woman nodded. "I have a shepherd mix. But I've heard packs sometimes even attack big dogs."
"I read an article about a man. . ."
Abby stopped listening. Her cheeks were hot. Could she sneak a
way while the two shared coyote stories? But they stood directly in her path.
What felt like an eternity later, Mimi seemed to remember she was there. "Oh, sorry. Abby this is Rosie, my decorator. Wait, you guys call yourselves interior designers these days don't you?"
"I answer to either," Rosie smiled.
"Abby is staying with her father on the other side." Mimi waved a hand toward Abby's house.
"You're Paul's daughter?"
Abby nodded. She hadn't found her voice yet.
"He's a nice man." Rosie smiled, the suspicion she'd been wearing on her face disappeared. "I met him when Gwen Bishop had this place listed."
"You know the Bishops?" Abby said, hoping to shift the conversation off her and coyotes.
"Yes. I've done some home staging for Gwen. When this place was on the market," she tipped her head in the direction of Mimi's house, "she asked for my advice. Your dad came over to see what we were up to."
"Whatever you did worked," Mimi said.
"I'd better get going," Abby moved toward the two women. "I put your pot on the porch. The soup was great. Thanks again."
"Glad you enjoyed it. How's your father doing? I was planning to stop by today."
Abby paused. "The ribs are healing, but I'm a little concerned about the head trauma."
"Head trauma?" Mimi said.
"Yes." Abby's thoughts raced. "He's sleeping a lot." Which was true. "But he also has some memory loss. The week leading up to the accident is foggy." Which was a complete lie.
"Do the doctors think his memory will return?" Rosie said.
"They don't know. Unlikely though. Transient amnesia isn't uncommon after this kind of thing." Abby hoped neither woman would research what she'd just said. She was shooting from the hip, hoping to start a rumor that would work for her father instead of against him.
"You can't be too careful with head injuries," Rosie said. "A little boy from St. Barnabas was in an accident, hit and run, maybe two years ago now. It took him a long time to recover from the brain damage."
"Are you talking about Brian McKibben?" Abby asked. He was one of her favorite students. The whole school had been pulling for him when he'd been in ICU.
"I don't remember the name." Rosie looked apologetic. "My husband is more involved in the school than I am these days. Once my kids graduated, I lost touch. But Eric is still on the board. He's a financial planner, and they like to run money decisions by him."
Abby couldn't think of anything else to say. She longed to escape. After an awkward silence, she said, "I'd better be going. I need to check on Dad."
Mimi and Rosie made room for her to pass. "Let me know if you need anything. More soup, or whatever," Mimi said.
Abby assured her she would and trotted across the grass to the safety of her own kitchen. Once inside she leaned against the back door and waited for her heart rate to slow and her cheeks to cool. Stupid. What had she been thinking snooping around the Jackson's property? She was turning into her mother, letting paranoia call the shots.
Her father’s reputation was more important to her than her own. She'd do anything to clear his name, but she needed to hang onto reason. She felt she was treading a tightrope. On one end of her balance pole was delusion, on the other Sylla’s reality. Tipping too far in either direction would mean disaster.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FRIDAY, MARCH 23, 10:00 AM
CARLOS GRABBED HIS tools from the back of his truck and walked through Mimi Jackson's side gate into the backyard. He should be at the office, he had a ton of paperwork, but he needed to feel his hands in the dirt. He needed the peace working with plants brought him. This was where he started his career, what he loved about the job.
He unloaded the plants he'd brought and carried them to the garden two at a time. Their herbal scents released as his hands bruised the leaves. Sage for wisdom. Rosemary for a focus. The smells cleared his head.
On his third trip to the truck, Abby came out the kitchen door onto the porch.
"I called you earlier. What happened?" he said, as he crossed the yard.
"I couldn't take the call." She pushed her bangs off her forehead. Her eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles around them.
"What happened at the police station?"
"It was brutal. Can you come in for a coffee? I'll tell you all about it, but I need to sit down. I'm so tired."
Carlos followed her into the house. He was worried about her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her into a chair. Then he crossed the kitchen to the coffee pot. "Not sleeping?"
"I spent half the night working on my manuscript so I could bring it to Sylla this morning. Convince her the anchorhold thing was my idea, not my father's." Carlos stiffened. He didn't like it. He couldn't say why, but the idea of Sylla reading Abby's book gave him a sinking feeling in his gut.
"I spent the other half of the night fighting nightmares." Abby leaned her cheek on her hand. She did look tired.
Carlos flipped the brew switch on the pot. "You need a nap more than you need coffee."
"Caffeine isn't going to keep me awake, trust me. I'm going straight to bed after this."
"Where's your Dad?"
"He's sleeping in his chair."
"So tell me what happened yesterday. When you talked to Sylla."
"It wasn't good." Abby lowered her voice. "She seems to think my father was holding the girl prisoner. That he's some kind of psycho."
"What?" The rock in Carlos's gut grew heavier.
"I know. I tried to tell her I was the one in the anchorhold. The whole thing was my idea. I told her about the book. I told her everything."
"What did she say?"
"She made a big deal out of the fact that I didn't leave until my father was in the hospital, out of the way. That you rushed to my rescue as soon as you found out where I was. That you were the one who helped me get out."
"How could he hold anyone prisoner in a place like that? There are people around all day long. What would stop you or the girl from yelling for help?"
"A strange upbringing and misplaced loyalty for me. Stockholm Syndrome for the girl."
He hadn't thought of that, but why would he? He'd only looked at the facts from Abby and Paul's points of view. If he shifted his focus, tried to see things through Sylla's eyes, they looked a lot different.
The M.E. believed the dead girl had been held captive for some time. Paul built a cell with no exit. He admitted to cementing his daughter inside, bringing her food and water, and not telling anyone where she was. That was bad enough, then Abby had to tell them about the anchorite thing.
Carlos knew she believed the chapters from her book would help convince Sylla of Paul's innocence, but he didn't think so. Paul was a religious man. Enclosing people in anchorholds was a strange religious practice. When Abby gave Sylla those pages, she'd given her a motive for her father's crime. A motive the police would never have thought of on their own. Carlos poured two cups of coffee and carried them to the table.
"I have to find that boy, the one I saw at the Mission that night. I feel like it's my only hope."
Carlos shook his head. "How're you going to do that? There are thousands of kids in Orange County who look like that. I got six cousins who fit the description."
"But not thousands of people knew my father was the one who went to the police as a witness."
"No one should know about that. The police were supposed to be keeping it quiet."
"I forgot to tell you. Sylla's accusations drove everything else from my mind. The man who found the girl's body, the garden volunteer, was at the station the morning my dad went in to make his statement. When the volunteer heard a Mission employee had come forward as a witness, he assumed it was Dad."
"Did he say anything to anybody?"
"He said he doesn't remember, but he might have said something to Tallulah and a couple of the other volunteers. Mimi is a garden volunteer."
Carlos felt his jaw clench. "You're not goi
ng to start in on the Jacksons again."
"I went over there this morning."
"Why? You didn't confront her?"
"No. No one was home. Not at first. I was looking for a place, a room."
"Somewhere someone could, say, lock up a sick Middle Eastern teenager?" He couldn't keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Abby, that's nuts. Mimi is my client. She's a nice lady. She has a family."
"Her son is the right age and height to be one of the men I saw. His cheekbones are high and his eyes the right shape. That's what I noticed that night. Her husband has the right build to be the other man. And, he makes business trips to the Middle East regularly. He even has an accent."
Carlos didn't say anything. He didn't believe it. Mimi and Bradley were good people. "Did you?"
"Did I what?"
"Find a room?"
"No. Mimi came home before I got a chance to look through both garage windows. I was going to peek in after she went into the house, but her decorator showed up. Then you called and my cell phone went off."
"That's why you declined my call."
"Right. Didn't do any good though. They found me."
"Great." If he held onto this job it would be a miracle. "How did you explain why you were lurking around on their property?"
"I said I saw a coyote."
"In broad daylight?"
"It happens."
"If we're going to start suspecting people, how about Tallulah?" He didn't really think Tallulah had anything to do with anything, but he wanted to show Abby how out there her accusations were. "You just told me she was one of the people there when your garden volunteer spilled his guts. Tallulah has a son the right age. She has a husband who's probably stockier than the average college student. She's exotic looking. Why not suspect her family?"
"I've thought about it," Abby said.
Carlos couldn't sit still any longer. He stood and walked to the sink. He'd expected Abby to get mad at him, to defend Tallulah, to see how crazy it was for them to go around accusing their friends and neighbors. He didn't think she'd agree with him.
"But I don't think their family has any connection to the Middle East." A thoughtful expression came over her face. "Of course, just because the girl is from the Middle East doesn't mean the people who left her at the Mission are, or have connections there. We have no idea who she was, or why someone would let her die that way."
