by Score, Lucy
“Smart,” I said, typing in the first address into the GPS program. “First stop: Abbie Gilbert.”
“What are we talking to her about? Is there a requirement for good cop, bad cop? I think I could perform an effective bad cop,” June said.
“We’re asking her why the Kendalls believed that she was their daughter.”
She pursed her lips under the glasses. “Do you believe they knew Abbie was not their daughter?”
“It’s crossed my mind.”
“Then why would they give her an apartment? Why would they publicly claim her as their daughter?” she asked.
“That’s what we’re going to find out.” I pointed to the bag at her feet. “There’s a turkey sandwich in there for you.”
“Turkey Tuesday.”
* * *
Abbie had been booted from her upscale Philadelphia apartment financed by the Kendalls. She now lived in a squat, gray brick building on the outskirts of Baltimore. The neighborhood was made up entirely of rundown row homes and graffitied convenience stores. Fast food bags and the cardboard from six-packs littered the sidewalks and gutters.
It didn’t feel dangerous. Just well past its prime. Like its residents had given up on keeping up appearances.
I put the car in park and cranked up the air conditioning. “Do you want to wait here with the kids?” I asked June.
She looked torn, peering into the back seat where her beloved Katherine was enjoying a snack of lettuce and pellets.
“I should accompany you,” she decided reluctantly.
We locked the car and crossed the road to the apartment building. A. Gilbert was listed above Apartment B3. I pressed the buzzer and waited.
There were no security cameras here, and some of the mailboxes inside the foyer had their doors broken off. It did not give off a homey vibe.
I buzzed again. Waited.
“Perhaps she is at work?” June suggested.
I shook my head. “Cassidy says there’s no job on record for her.”
“My sister gave you this address?” June asked, surprised. Cassidy Tucker was straight as an arrow. A good guy to the bone. She took the law and its rules very seriously.
“Of course not,” I scoffed. “I had Leah Mae use her super social media sleuthing powers to track her down.”
“I just asked Cassidy if she knew if Abbie was employed.”
“She must have been suspicious,” June insisted. On cue, her phone rang, and Cassidy’s name scrolled across the screen.
“Maybe don’t answer that until we’re on our way home,” I suggested.
“I believe that is the correct course of action.”
I stabbed the buzzer for B2 belonging to an M. McManus.
We waited another minute, the hot sun baking us on the sidewalk. “Maybe we should go back to the car. We have another stop to make. We could try Abbie again afterward.”
June gave the front door a hard tug, and we both watched bemused as the door opened.
“Some security system,” I muttered.
We took the stairs to the second floor. The paint on the walls and railing was peeling, and the carpet had bare spots, but overall it was clean. B2 was the second door on the left. I held my ear to the door and listened.
“What are you doing?” June asked at normal volume.
I eased back and shushed her. “I’m trying to see if she’s in there. She might not be answering the buzzer because she doesn’t want to talk.”
“This is taking too long. I would like to get back to my pig.” She reached around me and rapped her knuckles on the door. “Abbie Gilbert. I would like to speak with you.”
A dark head poked out of the door across the hall. “You’re going to have to yell a hell of a lot louder than that.”
June took a breath. “ABBIE GILBERT—”
I cut her off with a hand on her arm. “That’s not what you meant, is it?” I asked the woman.
Her jet-black hair was styled in a pristine bowl cut. She was wearing a purple and yellow housecoat and slippers that looked older than me.
“The poor girl,” the woman tut-tutted. “Couldn’t catch a break. Said her boyfriend broke up with her and she lost her job in Baltimore.”
June opened her mouth to argue, but I squeezed her arm.
“Do you know where we could find Abbie?” I asked.
The woman frowned. “That’s what the police called her, too.”
“The police?” June asked.
“We knew her as Ashley. Not Abbie. But whoever she was, she was hit by a car and killed last Thursday. Hit and run on her way home from the liquor store,” the neighbor said, shaking her head sadly. “Like I said. The girl couldn’t catch a break.”
40
Shelby
“I did not anticipate that,” June said when we returned to the car.
Katherine danced on dainty hooves in the back seat, thrilled at June’s return. Billy Ray was too busy napping under a napkin to notice that I was back.
“Can you look the accident up on your phone?” I asked grimly as I input the second address into the GPS. “There should be an accident report or a news story.”
Dutifully, June performed a search with one hand while scratching Katherine’s head with the other.
“Died on Thursday crossing Miller Avenue sometime after midnight,” she read. “Struck by an unknown vehicle. There were no witnesses and no suspects.”
“That’s convenient,” I muttered.
Odds were, it was a legitimate accident. A drunk driver fleeing the scene. A kid joyriding in stolen wheels. Abbie’s death most likely was not suspicious. And yet it nagged at me.
Loose ends.
“Thursday,” I said, opening a bottle of water and taking a long drink. I wished it were Mountain Dew. “Saturday is when they found that the dental records were a match.”
“Are you suggesting that those events are connected?” June asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t see a connection, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and thought.
“Abbie Gilbert had a court date for the fraud complaint brought by the Kendalls. But essentially, she was no longer part of the story. Abbie was unveiled as an opportunist, and now Callie is deceased. The missing person portion of the case is closed. Unless Abbie was the one who committed the homicide, I fail to see her connection,” June said.
I didn’t have an inkling either.
“Maybe someone was worried that the press would come asking more questions once the remains were identified. Like how did Abbie convince the Kendalls that she was Callie? Wouldn’t someone be wondering how she fooled them?”
“Perhaps. But why wait until now? Why not run her down with a vehicle immediately after discovering she committed fraud? And are you insinuating that you believe the Kendalls have some responsibility in Callie’s death?”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” I promised. “I’m just not positive that one of them didn’t have something to do with her death.”
The sun did little to warm the chill developing in my body as I steered onto the highway and headed southwest. It was too convenient, Abbie’s death. The one person who could answer questions about exactly why the Kendalls accepted her as Callie was gone. And I certainly wasn’t about to walk up to Judge Kendall and demand an explanation.
“Let’s walk through this. What if the Kendalls knew she wasn’t Callie?” I said.
“That theory makes no sense. Why would they publicly perpetuate the myth that their daughter had been found?”
I bit my lip, considering. I remembered those cool gray eyes and shivered. “Judge Kendall is up for appointment to a federal judgeship,” I said. “A big deal, right?”
“It is a prestigious position,” June agreed.
“A lot of power, prestige. He wouldn’t want to jeopardize that. Right? He wouldn’t want anything from his past coming to light that would cast doubt on his character.”
>
“Investigators always look at the family first. It’s standard procedure,” she reminded me. “Judge Kendall was never named as a suspect or a person of interest.”
Could anyone cover their tracks that well?
“Your expression suggests you are angry,” she said.
“This is my thinking face,” I explained.
“Where are we going now?” she asked.
“North Bethesda,” I told her. “There’s another person who might have some insight into the Kendalls’ relationship with their daughter.”
“What makes you think there was an issue in the relationship?" June asked, fishing in the bag at her feet and pulling out the other half of her turkey sandwich.
“I can't explain it. It’s just a hunch, a feeling in my gut. I’ve met a lot of families, a lot of dysfunctional families, and the Kendalls are ringing that bell for me.”
“I do not hear a bell,” she said.
I smiled. I loved the literal mind of June Tucker. “You’re a fact girl, aren’t you, June?"
“I rely heavily on facts,” she agreed as she chewed a bite of sandwich.
“As a researcher, I too have to rely on facts. But in my line of work, it was essential to develop instincts as well. And my instincts are telling me that there’s something off about this entire situation.”
“But nothing you discover will change the fact that Callie is dead.”
June had me there.
“If I can find information that will give the Bodines any hope at all that their father was not involved in Callie Kendall’s murder, I intend to do it.”
“That makes sense. It’s our duty as friends to ease their suffering.”
“Then let’s find some answers for them.”
“Perhaps your instincts are rooted in fact,” she suggested. “I was certain there was something false about Abbie Gilbert’s story but was unsure what the falsehood was until I did my research.”
“Then let’s do a little research in Bethesda,” I said.
“What is in Bethesda?”
“The junior high music teacher who reported signs of suspected child abuse involving Callie Kendall in 1998.”
June frowned. “My research did not uncover any such report,” she said.
“It was sealed and recanted,” I explained. “It took some digging, and the case file is basically empty. The only thing that exists is the date, the accuser’s first and last name, and her written retraction.” I really owed Leah Mae for her social media research skills.
“If this teacher recanted her concerns, that means she was wrong.” June frowned.
“We’re just tying up loose ends," I assured her. “It’s probably nothing. Let’s go into this with an open mind."
In my time as a social worker in Pittsburgh, I had seen a lot. Not everything, but enough to know that people were capable of just about anything. Including filing false abuse and neglect reports. I’d seen angry exes file reports of child abuse against their former spouses just to get back at them. I'd also seen well-meaning people with genuine concerns file complaints only to have the investigations show the claims were baseless. In those situations, relationships were damaged, reputations tarnished.
But someone at some point looked at Callie Kendall and wondered if someone was hurting or neglecting her. And June and I were going to ask that woman some questions.
We took a break at a rest stop and let the dog and pig stretch their legs. Both pig and puppy drew a crowd of admirers before we got back in the car and headed south into North Bethesda. Cece Benefiel retired from teaching in Richmond and moved to Maryland to be closer to her children. It also made her conveniently closer to us.
North Bethesda was tidier than Abbie Gilbert’s town. Wide sidewalks crisscrossed under canopies of neatly trimmed trees. Red brick buildings lined the trash-free streets. Everything felt well-maintained and proud.
I followed the GPS directions and twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a dull gold split-level home. The yard was maintained by an avid gardener, I guessed. Tall spikes of wildflowers and grasses exploded out of tidy flowerbeds. The grass was jade green and cut in a crosshatch pattern that spoke of pride and precision.
“This is much more pleasant than the last place we attempted to sneak into,” June observed. “Does this music teacher know that we are coming?”
I shook my head. “I didn't want to scare her off with some cryptic message asking questions about a children and youth report she filed twenty-odd years ago.”
“That was probably wise,” she said, adjusting her ball cap. “Do you suppose I will still have the opportunity to play bad cop?”
I laughed. “I hope so. I’d love to see it.” We left the car running, the air conditioning cranked, and crossed the street.
We followed a winding walk through azaleas and tall fluffy grasses to the front porch. I reached for the bell, but June stopped me.
“If this music teacher is also deceased, then I will start to share your suspicions.”
“Let’s hope that’s not the case.”
41
Shelby
Mrs. Cece Benefiel was very much alive and thrilled to have the company.
Especially once I told her we were interviewing retired teachers for a grad school project.
Fortunately the woman didn’t catch June’s “No, we’re not,” as she ushered us inside.
Her husband, Mr. Benefiel, was on a three-day golf trip with two of their adult sons and three grandsons, she explained. She insisted that she was always happy to talk to fellow lovers of education. I took the information dump as a hopeful sign that she was an over-sharer.
She was just what I would have wanted in a music teacher. Bubbly with short, fluffy hair, reading glasses worn on a chain, and bright smile that insisted we were welcome. My junior high music teacher, Mr. Hendricks, by contrast, was a balding, angry fifty-something going through a divorce and taking it out on his students.
I felt a tiny stab of guilt at misrepresenting our reason for being there but managed to shove it aside. We were on a mission. Also, it was almost worth it just hearing June introduce us as “July and Sheila.”
“I promise we won’t take up too much your time,” I told her as she led us into her living room. It was cozy and crowded with furniture that looked as if it had been heavily used and well-tended for at least a decade. I imagined some of the half-dozen grandchildren in frames adorning the wallpapered walls enjoyed bouncing on the overstuffed sofa and mismatched, but equally comfy, armchairs. This was the home of someone who appreciated and enjoyed family.
“It is no trouble at all, Sheila. I'm thrilled to have some company,” Mrs. Benefiel insisted. “I was just about to make some tea. Would you like some?”
“Do you have any cookies?” June asked.
I elbowed her.
“Of course I have cookies.” Mrs. Benefiel beamed. “I’ll be right back.” The woman disappeared toward the back of the house, and I could hear the sounds of a kettle being readied.
“That was not very polite,” June said, rubbing her ribs.
“We’re here for information. Not snacks.”
“George is on a diet, which means I am on a diet. George isn’t here, so I can have cookies. Grandmas make the best cookies.” Her logic was flawless.
“Eat as many of them as you can before I tell her why we’re really here.”
“You got us invited inside on false pretenses. I’ll accept snacks on false pretenses,” she said. “How will you broach the subject of Callie Kendall?”
I shrugged. "I haven't gotten that far yet.”
I hoped she would provide an opening for me. I didn’t feel good about being booted from an elderly school teacher’s very nice home.
Mrs. Benefiel returned carrying a tea tray. “Do either of you two mind dogs?” she asked.
“Not at all. We both enjoy pets,” June said.
“Oh, wonderful! Then you won’t mind if Scout joins us. Scout! Come!”
I heard the thunder of what was way too big to be paws tearing down the hall. Pictures in the frames rattled on the wall. Knickknacks on shelves trembled.
The beast that loped into the room wasn’t a dog as much as a bull, an elephant, a rhinoceros. She was tall and leggy with blue-gray fur. Her ears were perked up over one blue eye and one brown.
“There’s my sweet little girl,” Mrs. Benefiel crooned. Scout sat on her haunches and remained at my eye level. “She’s a Great Dane.”
“My pig is in the car,” June announced. Mrs. Benefiel blinked behind her glasses. “I’m sorry, my dear, did you say pig?”
“Yes. Her name is Marie Curie,” June said.
I blinked. June had just given her pig an alias.
She dug her phone out of her back pocket. “Would you like to see some pictures?”
“Well, if she's in the car, why don't you bring her inside?" Mrs. Benefiel suggested, putting her reading glasses on to better admire June’s pig.
“Sheila’s puppy is in the car as well,” June mentioned.
“Oh! Scout loves puppies,” our hostess exclaimed.
While I was trying to discern whether she meant Scout loved puppies for breakfast or as playmates, June trotted outside to retrieve our pets.
Five minutes later a pig, a dog, and a horse—because there was no way Scout was a dog—were chasing each other all over the first floor of Mrs. Benefiel’s home while June and I drank green tea and ate freshly iced sugar cookies.
“Now, tell me about this project of yours, Sheila and July,” Mrs. Benefiel insisted.
Scout tore through the living room chased by an ecstatic Billy Ray. Katherine trotted through at a more leisurely pace.
“Mrs. Benefiel I’m sure you’ve taught hundreds of children over the years,” I began. “I’m sure you had a few favorites.”
June grabbed a second cookie.
