by Judy Alter
Silence again, until David said, “No idea. Unless somehow Ambrose Connell was part of this. Steven would have been a young child at the time, so why would he be involved now? She’s apparently the mother who left him with a ne’er-do-well father.”
“Maybe Ambrose Connell holds the clue to the mystery,” I said, putting my plate in the sink. “I’m going to get my computer.”
Before I could settle at my computer, household details had to be taken care of. James and Shelly fixed themselves a bedroom with the air mattress in the living room; Rose was set in Donna’s room and went willingly back to bed. David and I said nothing about our sleeping arrangements, but we turned out all the lights and then I hesitantly let an impatient Huggles outside. While he did his business, I crouched on the porch steps, listening for any sound and letting my imagination run away with me at the slightest sound from the woods that bordered the far side of the yard.
Huggles sensed my fear and came running back to me as soon as he’d taken care of his needs. That was one time I wasn’t going to pooper-scoop the yard right away. We went into the house, and I turned on a few lights, including outside lamps on the porch.
David did dishes, while I sat at my computer. Searching for Ambrose Connell on Google didn’t bring up much—no surprise—but it did bring up a brief news item in The Dallas Morning News. Beyond the usual information—he was found dead of unknown cause in Wheeler, it contained a gem of information. He was born in 1940, married in 1959 to Ellie Mae Tipton. Ambrose Connell was survived by his son, Steven. Eureka! Ellie Mae had to be Edith, but how to confirm that? And that meant she was probably Steven’s mother. Oh, what a tangled web….
David had loaded the dishwasher and come to sit by me. “You still have access to Dallas County records? You could look up a birth record for Ellie Mae Tipton and then maybe a marriage license.”
I did have those databases on my computer still, from days as working as David’s paralegal in Dallas. “How old do you think she is?”
“Sixty to sixty-five,” he said. “I’ll check marriage records for late 1950s.”
He got the easier chore, but I began checking Dallas County birth certificates from 1935 to 1950. At first, it seemed an endless task. I went through countless records without a nibble, and believe me, there were a lot of births in Dallas County in those years. Besides, we didn’t know positively that’s where she was born. But then, in records for June 18, 1942, I found her—Ellie Mae Tipton, born to Charles and Marie Tipton. A home address on Worth Street. I had no idea where that was. “She’s only sixty. Married young, divorced young, widowed at thirty-eight and a recluse ever since.”
“Strange life,” he replied.
I scribbled down the address and showed it to him. “East side of town. Used to be a fine neighborhood. Now it’s sort of blue collar, both the neighborhood and a lot of houses show signs of neglect. Parents are probably long dead.”
“I don’t want to look through endless obituaries.”
“They have a search function in the newspaper morgue. Now that you know the names, it should be pretty easy.”
So I typed in Charles Tipton and learned that he died in 1984. Ellie Mae by then was Edith and safely married to the wealthy Walter Aldridge. I wondered how cordial the relationship was between father and son-in-law. What mattered was that he was survived by his daughter, listed as Ellie Mae Tipton Aldridge (must have frosted Walter) and two sons—Edgar and Charles Jr. If they still lived in Dallas, we were on our way.
David, meanwhile, had found the record of Ellie Mae’s first marriage—to Ambrose Connell—at the courthouse.
I could picture a drab affair, with the bride wearing a tacky white organza dress, carrying a bouquet of chrysanthemums, and the nervous groom in a shiny blue suit, with his Adam’s apple bobbing above his red necktie. What a sad beginning, and maybe no wonder it didn’t last. Then again, the notice, unlike society wedding announcements, said nothing about where the couple would live or what they would do with their lives. Maybe neither was employed, and they would go home to the Tipton house.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I began searching Dallas phone records for Charles or Edgar Tipton. Charles didn’t show up, but Edgar did—living in the Tipton family home in East Dallas.
“We’re going to Dallas tomorrow,” I announced. “Maybe during the day isn’t best—Edgar might be working. But we could go about six, at suppertime, probably catch him at home. Come to deliver sad news and our condolences.”
“And what are you going to do with Rose and James and Shelly?” David asked.
I hadn’t thought about that, though I knew this venture was dangerous for the two of us. “I’ll call Chester in the morning.”
It was already morning—three o’clock to be exact—and we turned in. David slept immediately, but I tossed and turned and played out all kinds of scenarios in my mind.
I rolled out of bed about seven, face puffy, eyes red, a mess. First thing I did was to call the café, ask Jesse to make the sticky buns though it was already late to set them to rising, and ask Marj to handle the day. “We’ve had a little trouble here…no, no, everything’s fine…but the general opinion, including Chester’s, is that it isn’t smart for me to be at the café. For my sake and the café’s….No, I don’t think it will last long.” I wished the latter were true. And I never mentioned a trip to Dallas.
Chester immediately blew his stack. “You’ll do no such thing! I’ll notify Dallas police and they’ll go deliver the news. You will not leave your house.”
“Chester, come over for sticky buns and coffee. We have to talk.”
“You are not bribing me, Missy, but I’ll come listen.”
And so he did. By the time Chester got to the house, Gus had delivered sticky buns, with a serious warning, “You take care, Miss Kate. Danger is too near.”
Everyone else was awake and crowded into the kitchen. I had let Huggles out with some trepidation, but nothing happened. I wasn’t sure why I thought now Steven Connell would shoot my dog. He’d made his presence and his demands known. But still I worried and fussed so much over the dog when he came in that he backed away from me in alarm.
James, less intimidated than I, let Malcolm Maynard out and sat on the porch steps while the dog explored and did his business. I finally, due to barking demands, let Huggles back out again, and the two dogs had a fine time running and chasing each other. Good to tire them out.
Chester came in loaded for a fight. “Why do you think a personal visit will get any more information than the police?”
“Because we’ll come as concerned friends, in sympathy. Police immediately arouse defensiveness, even the best of them.”
He harrumphed a little at that, so I hastened to add, “Present company not included.”
“You better say that.” But he hugged me.
“What if that’s exactly where Connell and Edith went? They could be waiting for you, and you could walk into an ambush.”
“I doubt it,” David said. “I know their cars and can be cautious, but who knows what kind of relationship Edith does or doesn’t have with her brothers? And it’s too logical for them to go there—they must know law enforcement wants to at least talk to them. We just want to talk to the brother.”
“Sheriff Halsted put out a BOLO for them, but no results so far. Meantime, how am I going to keep these folks safe?” Chester asked, his sweeping gesture taking in a shivering Rose and the much calmer James and Shelly. Chester himself came up with a plan. He’d put Rose, Shelly, James, and Malcolm Maynard in his jail. Carolyn would bring them exquisite meals. And they’d come back to my house when we got back from Dallas.
“Jail?” Rose echoed in horror.
“Safest place to be,” Chester said. “I don’t like letting these two go off on a wild-goose chase, but knowing them I don’t have much choice. I’ll deputize Bryson again, and one of us will be with you at all times.”
“What will I do all day in jail?” Rose whined.
“I’ve probably got some books you could read,” I volunteered, while Chester said he had a small TV he could put in her cell.
James and Shelly were more complacent. “I think this is all a bunch of foolishness, but I won’t put Shelly in danger because of my crazy family. We each brought books, and some togetherness time wouldn’t hurt us. Besides, sounds like Carolyn is a good cook.”
“She is that,” Chester said, rubbing his belly. “She’ll probably fix you something fattening that she won’t let me eat.”
So it was settled. David and I would leave for Dallas about two, giving us time to go by his office for him to check in and then his apartment where, among other things, he’d pick up the shotgun he’d left behind. He had his pistol with him, but if we were attacked from a distance—which I didn’t really think we would be—the pistol wouldn’t do much good.
“I scouted around ’fore I came in just now,” Chester said. “No sign of anybody having been here. ’Course we haven’t had rain in a few days, and the ground is dry—easy to prowl without leaving a track.”
Suddenly, the absurdity of it all came over me, and I began to giggle. Everyone stared at me, and I opened my mouth to explain, but every time I tried to speak, the giggles beat me. Finally, I was able to squeeze out words. “Can you imagine Edith Aldridge lurking in the bushes, scouting out my house?” And then I was off in laughter again.
David slapped me. Not hard. Just enough to sober me. “No, but I can sure see Steven Connell doing it.”
Chester left, promising to call Tom, and we faced a long morning. David was at his computer, alternately sending emails and then muttering into his cell phone. James and Shelly drifted back into the living room, but Rose remained glued to the morning shows on the kitchen TV, which I found a huge annoyance.
“I called Melissa just to let her know I’m all right,” she said.
David came out of his business trance long enough to say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Please don’t call anyone else until this is all solved.”
“But that could be an eternity,” Rose wailed.
I wished I could call Donna to come get her charity case.
The good that came out of that long morning was that David quietly told me he’d hired another PI to investigate Steven Connell’s background.
“How can you trust this one?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “He’s somebody I’ve worked with longer than Steven, and when I mentioned Steven’s name, he groaned. I think there’s something there.” He took a deep breath. “Kate, we have a long and difficult day ahead. Please don’t make it any worse by second-guessing.”
For lunch, we had tuna salad sandwiches and chips from the café, delivered again by Gus.
Shortly before two, Chester and Tom came for their charges. I noticed that Tom wore his handgun on his hip—a sure sign that he’d been deputized again. I thought I should call Donna, and then realized she might not know anything about what was going on.
Amid farewells that hid a lot of anxiety, David and I left for Dallas. Tom in particular hugged me extra tight and muttered, “You take care of yourself,” while Chester just said, “You two be safe and call if you have any trouble.”
****
David had no trouble finding 4321 Worth Street, a modest brick bungalow once probably quite trim. Now everything needed paint—the trim on the house, the picket fence, even the bedraggled trellis that might once have boasted glorious roses. Spotty grass filled the small lawn area, most of it green weeds, and the flower beds—or spaces where they had once been—were overgrown. Along a side fence, Johnson grass flourished, and I saw a stand of bamboo at the back of the property. Good for privacy, but it would sure take over in a hurry. If Edgar didn’t do something he’d have it growing up through his kitchen floor.
One car, a Ford, probably 1990s model, now with rusted places and peeling paint, stood in the driveway. David circled the block from two directions, a couple of times, but saw nothing to alarm him.
“You going to take your shotgun?”
He snorted. “I know it’s legal to carry long guns in Texas, but how would you feel if you opened your front door to some guy with a shotgun? I’ve got my revolver—and my license. Now, look, Kate. Let me do the talking. But when we walk up there, don’t be timid. Don’t pull a Rose on me and act scared.”
I resisted the urge to say, “Yes, sir!” and climbed out of the car, beating him to the front door, where I leaned on the doorbell.
A woman answered, wearing a splattered apron over loose-fitting knit pants and a T-shirt, wiping her hair off her forehead. She looked worn down by life. Probably not more than mid-fifties but the air of tiredness she exuded made her seem twenty years older.
“Mrs. Tipton? Is Mr. Tipton at home? We’re here on a matter about his sister.”
She called shrilly, “Edgar! Some people want to see you about your sister.”
A disgruntled voice from the back of the house moved closer to us as he grumbled, “What’s happened now? She’s like a bad penny. Only shows up when there’s trouble, like the time she shot that rich husband of hers.” He was older than his wife but looked younger, perhaps because a job kept him in touch with the world daily. He wore stained coveralls and smelled of hard physical work done that day and not yet washed off.
David held out his hand. “Edgar Tipton, I’m David Clinkscales. I’m your sister Edith’s lawyer, but I’m afraid she’s disappeared.”
“Got no sister named Edith. Her name’s Ellie Mae…or was until she took on airs. Come on in, and have a seat.”
We settled on chintz-covered couch and matching chairs with plastic covers protecting them. Mrs. Tipton made a vague mention of “the cats, you know” and then disappeared with, “I’d better check on the stew. There’s plenty if you’ll join us.”
As we politely declined, saying we were on a tight time schedule, Edgar glared at her. He clearly didn’t want to put up with us any longer than possible.
“Your sister disappeared yesterday morning, we think in the company of a man named Steven Connell. Does that ring a bell?”
He laughed aloud. “No, it sounds a great big gong. Steven’s that son of hers, not someone I would trust from here across the street.”
So much for David’s choice of a PI.
“I’ve represented her for quite a few years now and never heard that she had a son.”
“She didn’t talk about him much because she wanted him out of her new life. Left him with that no-good father of his…forget his first name.”
“Ambrose,” I supplied. That name was forever emblazoned on my mind.
“Yeah, Ambrose. Strange name. Sounds like a rich man’s butler, but believe me he isn’t that. He’s a bum. Raised that kid from pillar to post and probably taught him every trick in the book. That’s why Steven made a good private investigator, even if he didn’t always walk on the right side of the law. I kept in touch with Ambrose, felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to invite him here.”
Boldly I interrupted. “Tell us about Ellie Mae.”
His eyes misted over. “Older than me, but as good a big sister as you could wish for when I was a toddler. Near raised me when our mother’s health failed. But along about high school, she got notions that she was cut out for some life grander than ours. ’Course back then, this was a good neighborhood, and Mama had the prettiest flower garden on this block—roses, azaleas, petunias, you name a flowering plant, and Mama had it. When she died, place went to pot—I can’t do it ’cause of my bad back.”
“Ellie Mae?” I prodded.
“Overnight, seems like, she turned mean. Always full of schemes that would benefit Ellie Mae, and she didn’t care who she hurt. She broke some high school boys’ hearts, one bad enough he tried to kill himself, but she didn’t care. Waved a hand and said how stupid it was of him.
“And then she run off with that Connell fellow—think he promised her the moon and more, but she was sure starry-eyed. No more tha
n seventeen years old. Young as I was I didn’t think it was smart. Didn’t think she was gonna get everything he promised her. But Ma was relieved to see her go, I think. By then I was old enough to do the chores, and I suspect Ma was tired of Ellie Mae complaining and scheming—and sometimes stealing what little money Ma had so she could buy herself something fancy. Ma used to boil bones to make us a cheap broth. I tell you, I was hungry a lot of the time.”
The picture of Ellie Mae sure didn’t fit the Edith Aldridge I knew. “When did you last see her?”
“When Ma died, maybe twenty-some years ago. She was married to that Walter fellow by then and had become a grand lady, ’cept she didn’t offer to pay for the funeral or anything. Good thing Ma had insurance. I asked her ’bout Ambrose and the kid I heard she had, but she said they were out of her life. Exact words were ‘Good riddance.’ Ambrose told me later they’d never divorced, so she wasn’t really married to that rich fellow. Not that I cared. Told her not to ever come back here again.”
That put a whole new light on things. If she wasn’t legally married to Walter Aldridge, she didn’t stand to inherit and shouldn’t have the mansion. “So you haven’t seen her in the last couple of days?”
“No, sirree. She knows I’d take a shotgun after her. Why?”
“There’s been some trouble, and Steven has also disappeared. We didn’t even know they were related until the last couple of days, but now we think they’re together. Several people’s lives are in danger. Ambrose was murdered.”
“You don’t say! Damn shame. He was no shakes as a man, but I hate to hear somebody’s been murdered.” He rubbed his chin, and called to his wife. “Susie? I got a powerful thirst for a beer. Bet these folks do too.”
I declined but David gratefully accepted a Miller Lite, a brand he usually scorned. We talked a while longer, but two things were clear: Edgar enjoyed having an audience for his storytelling, and he had not one clue where his errant sister was.
As we rose to leave, David said, “Mr. Tipton, you keep that shotgun handy. I don’t think Edith will come here, but you never know.”
