Her Mother’s Grave_Absolutely gripping crime fiction with unputdownable mystery and suspense

by Lisa Regan

  “You can take my bed; I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “I’m fine,” Josie insisted.

  He raised a brow. “So, you’re saying you’ll be able to sleep here tonight?”

  He had a point.

  “I wanted to go with you guys tomorrow for the courthouse interview on the Belinda Rose case,” she said.

  “Then you should definitely get some sleep. Stay at my place—at least for tonight.”

  Chapter Forty

  JOSIE – ELEVEN YEARS OLD

  Josie watched as her mother’s body language changed. Her posture was looser, and she had that fake smile she often used on her special friends when she didn’t have enough money for needles or pills. She moved closer to the man, her legs touching the inside of his. “Between you and me, I think we could work something out, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “Like a trade?”

  Josie’s mother reached down and ran a hand up his thigh to his belt. “Something like that. I do something for you, and we forget all about the paint job. Call it even.”

  He chuckled. “Even, huh?”

  She straddled him. His hands reached for her hips, but his eyes traveled over her shoulder to where Josie remained paralyzed at the kitchen table. Her mother followed his gaze, glancing at Josie. Then she turned back to him, using an index finger to bring his attention back to her. “We’ll go in the back,” she said.

  His hands snaked down and around her mother’s back, cupping her rear. He leaned into her and whispered something in her ear. At first she laughed, but then he whispered something else. There was a lengthy discussion that Josie couldn’t make out. Then she heaved off his lap. She went back to the sink and rinsed a glass out, filling it with vodka. Josie waited for them to disappear into her mother’s bedroom so she could concentrate on her fractions, but instead, the glass of vodka appeared in front of her. Her mother pushed it across the table until it was under Josie’s nose. From the couch, the man smiled widely.

  “JoJo,” her mother said, “you drink this.”

  Josie stared at her mother. “Mom, I can’t drink alcohol. I’m not supposed to.”

  Her mother tapped an index finger against the rim of the glass. Josie could feel the man’s eyes on her. She looked at him again, but this time his smile looked different—hungry and a little bit greedy. Josie’s heart skipped several beats and then raced ahead. The room seemed to close in on her.

  Her mother said, “I’m your mother and what I say goes. Now you’re gonna drink this down, and then you’re gonna go into the back with this nice man.”

  “In-into the back?” Josie said, her voice cracking.

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “Yes, the back. You can use my bedroom.”

  “Use it?”

  She pushed the glass closer, and the liquid sloshed over the rim, spilling across Josie’s math homework. She lowered her voice. “Don’t ask questions, JoJo. You go into the back room with this gentleman and just do whatever he tells you to do, you got it?”

  The vodka stung so badly, Josie gagged on it. “Jesus, JoJo,” her mother complained. She went to the fridge and searched through it until she found a carton of orange juice. She poured some into the cup, diluting the vodka. Even with the juice, it smarted all the way down, burning Josie’s mouth and throat and leaving a funny numb feeling on her tongue.

  Josie’s mother made her drink another glass after she finished the first. When she grabbed Josie’s arm and pulled her up out of her seat, the room spun. Josie’s feet wouldn’t work. She couldn’t tell if it was from the vodka or from the way the man was looking at her. Her mother’s bedroom door was at once a million miles away and too close for comfort.

  She didn’t want to do whatever the man told her to do. She had a panicky feeling inside that he would want to do the disgusting things her mother did with men. Josie had seen them many times. Sometimes her mother was too drunk or high to remember to put Josie into the closet or to go to her own bedroom with her special friends. There had been several times that Josie was at the kitchen table when they started taking their clothes off. No one noticed her, and she was too afraid to try to run past them to her room and draw attention to herself. The things the men did to her mother looked painful and scary.

  “Mommy, I don’t want to,” Josie choked out.

  “Shut up, JoJo.” Her mother pushed her down the hallway and she stumbled, reaching for the dark paneled walls to steady herself. The man followed.

  Josie felt his hand in her hair, and she jumped. His laughter was hot on the back of her neck. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m going to make you feel good.”

  Nausea roiled in her stomach. The vodka and orange juice threatened to come back up. He was so close. Too close. The heat of his body closed in on her. Tears stung her eyes. His hand slid down from her neck, tracing her spine, moving down until one of his fingers hooked inside the waistband of her cotton shorts.

  She stumbled again, and her shorts, caught on his finger, pulled down a little, exposing her. The man gave a low whistle. “This is gonna be fun,” he said, making Josie’s heart thud so hard in her chest, it hurt. She shut her eyes as she closed her hand around the handle of the bedroom door, and turned…

  Suddenly, the trailer’s front door banged open behind her and the man jumped back, snapping his hand away from her body. She turned, looking past him, to where Needle now stood just inside the trailer. Without moving, he looked from her mother to where Josie and the man were frozen in place. His dark beady eyes narrowed at the man in the hallway. “What the hell’s going on here?” he asked.

  All eyes turned to Josie’s mother. For a fraction of a second, Josie thought she saw fear in her mother’s eyes. It was quickly replaced with a flash of anger. She stepped toward Needle. “Nothing that concerns you,” she told him.

  But Needle remained rooted to the spot. He gestured toward the man. “Who the hell’s that?”

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “None of your goddamn business. Did you bring anything?”

  Needle ignored her. “JoJo,” he called.

  Josie said nothing. Her fear, mixed with the effects of the vodka, robbed her of speech. Her eyes pleaded with him.

  “Hey,” her mother said irritably. “I told you to stay—”

  “Shut up,” Needle said. He held out a hand in Josie’s direction. “JoJo, come on now. Come over here.”

  Somehow, Josie’s feet scuttled toward him. His hand touched the top of her head, and he nodded toward the front door. “Go on outside and play now.”

  “You son of a bitch,” her mother growled, but Needle ignored her, pushing Josie toward the door.

  She didn’t have to be told twice. She practically tumbled out into the cool air, running into the woods as quickly as her feet would carry her.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Josie surfaced from a deep sleep, her bleary eyes taking in unfamiliar surroundings. Light-blue walls, a four-drawer dresser scuffed from top to bottom, masculine items scattered across its surface—an electric razor, cologne, a black wallet. Then there was the smell. Not unpleasant. Just different. It was Noah’s smell, she realized. As the fog of sleep cleared, she sat up in his bed, listening. She thought she heard noises from downstairs. She had slept peacefully, considering she was in a strange bed and was still reeling from the intrusion of her home. She looked around the room once more, noting how little light it got compared to her own bedroom. The furnishings were utilitarian, although in the six months since she had last been to his house, Noah had outfitted the downstairs with new, modern furniture and appliances. It still had the half-finished look of a bachelor pad, but it was far more welcoming and comfortable.

  A knock sounded on the door. Before Josie could answer, Noah walked in, a steaming mug of coffee in his hands. He froze when he saw her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I should have waited for you to say ‘Come in.’”

  “It’s okay,” Josie said.

  “You might have been changing,” he point
ed out. “I—uh—I’m really sorry.”

  He started to retreat, but Josie stood and reached for the coffee. “It’s fine,” she said. “Really. Thank you.”

  She sipped the coffee standing there, suddenly aware of how she must look wearing Ray’s faded old Denton PD T-shirt and a pair of threadbare sweatpants. She put the mug on his nightstand and patted her hair down. Beneath her fingers, she felt a thick lump of knotted hair in the back of her head.

  “Guess I should, uh, use your bathroom,” Josie said.

  She went to move past him as he tried to get out of the doorway, but they both moved in the same direction. The awkward dance continued as they tried to get out of each other’s way, only succeeding in bumping chests. The heady scent of Noah’s aftershave invaded her nostrils. She wished she’d had time to brush her teeth before their first conversation of the day.

  “I’m sorry,” Noah said, finally backing out of the room. He pointed to his left. “Bathroom’s that way.”

  Josie smiled tightly. “Got it. Thanks.”

  She showered, brushed her teeth, and dressed quickly. In the kitchen, Noah whipped up a breakfast of bacon and eggs, which they ate in silence. Only once they left to meet Gretchen for the interview of the former courthouse employee did the awkwardness between them dissipate. As they drove to the Bellewood home of Alona Ortiz, the retired district court clerk who had once worked with Belinda Rose, Josie tried hard not to dwell on what had happened in her home the night before.

  Ortiz lived in a two-story brick home near the courthouse in the center of Bellewood. Her front porch was cluttered with potted plants and children’s toys. When Ortiz emerged, a knit shawl wrapped around her hunched shoulders, she smiled and waved at the mess. “Grandkids,” she explained. “They’re like little tornadoes. Come in, come in. Sit.”

  Her living room was equally full of plants and toddler toys—brightly colored blocks, worn stuffed animals, a plastic tool set, and a dress-up trunk filled with glittery pink and purple dresses and several sparkly tiaras. Gretchen made small talk with her while Josie and Noah found their places on her threadbare burgundy sofa. Ortiz sat in a recliner across from them, tucking strands of her shoulder-length silver hair behind her ears. Josie knew she was in her sixties, but she had a youthful look about her, her olive skin still relatively smooth except for the deep laugh lines bracketing her mouth.

  “Three of you,” she observed. “This must be important. What did young Belinda get up to? Is she in trouble?”

  Gretchen perched on the arm of the sofa. “I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Ortiz, but we believe Belinda was killed in 1984, possibly the same day she went missing. We found her remains in Denton last week.”

  Mrs. Ortiz’s mouth turned downward. Her brown eyes found the floor. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said gravely.

  “We were wondering what you could tell us about Belinda and her job at the courthouse,” Josie said.

  Mrs. Ortiz leaned back in her chair and folded her hands over her stomach. “That was some time ago, but I wouldn’t have told you to come over if I didn’t remember her. Hard to forget those blond curls, but mostly I remember her because she was quite a flirt. Caused a little bit of conflict around the office while she was there.”

  “What did she do at the courthouse?” Noah asked.

  “Oh, you know, mostly filing, getting the mail ready, making sure the coffee pot was full. It was a part-time job. Myself and one other woman worked there as clerks. We had gone to the high school to see if we could get one or two students to come in and help out. There were a handful of candidates, but Belinda got the job. She was very sunny. Never had any problems with her work. I mean, she was a bit unreliable. I didn’t think we should let her come back after the few months she missed, but we needed help and she did her job well. Like I said, I never had a problem with her work.”

  Josie leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “But you had other problems with her?”

  Mrs. Ortiz gave a tight smile. “Well, not just me. We had several judges, some assistant district attorneys, and some public defenders who worked out of the courthouse. They had their own staff who didn’t appreciate the way Belinda flirted with their bosses.”

  Noah asked, “Was the staff primarily female?”

  Mrs. Ortiz smiled at him knowingly. “We’re talking the early eighties, son. The judges and lawyers were male, and the staff was female. So yes, all female. I think many of them were just jealous. She was a very vivacious young woman, and she did turn the heads of a lot of men.”

  Josie said, “Did Belinda have relationships with any of the men?”

  Mrs. Ortiz frowned. “She was a teenager,” she said, as if that precluded the possibility of an affair.

  “Well, was there anyone she flirted with more than the others?” Gretchen asked.

  “I suppose she had quite an interest in Judge Bowen.”

  The name was vaguely familiar to Josie, but she couldn’t place it.

  Gretchen scribbled something on her notepad. “How did Judge Bowen react to her interest?”

  Mrs. Ortiz waved her hand. “Oh, he loved it. Of course, he had to be careful because he had a young wife, and she worked there too, as a secretary. The flirting caused some arguments between them at first, but then Mrs. Bowen became friendly with Belinda. They were close in age.”

  “How close?” Josie asked.

  “Oh, well, Mrs. Bowen was only twenty. It was quite the scandal when she and the judge got married because he was fifteen years older than her, but she was of age and they seemed in love.”

  “How old was Mrs. Bowen when they got married?” Noah asked.

  “Eighteen,” Mrs. Ortiz answered.

  Noah looked at Josie with a raised brow. She knew what he was thinking. If the girl was eighteen when the judge married her, they had likely been seeing one another before she became of age. Which meant he may have had a predilection for young girls. Belinda had gotten pregnant shortly after starting her job at the courthouse. It was too big a coincidence to ignore.

  “What was Mrs. Bowen’s first name?” Gretchen asked.

  “Sophia.”

  “Did the Bowens stay married?” Noah asked.

  Mrs. Ortiz nodded. “Oh yes. They were married right up until Judge Bowen passed. Cancer. That was about ten years ago. Their children were already grown, thank goodness. They had two boys.”

  “Do you remember Belinda being pregnant?” Gretchen asked, steering the conversation back to their reason for being there.

  Three horizontal lines appeared on Mrs. Ortiz’s forehead. “Pregnant? Belinda was never pregnant. She was just a child.”

  Josie wondered if Belinda had really been that skilled at hiding the pregnancy, or if all the adults in her life had simply been that oblivious. Mrs. Ortiz seemed a bit naïve in Josie’s estimation, although what Josie saw in her job day in and day out had made her jaded. Josie said, “You said that Belinda was friends with Sophia Bowen. Was there anyone else she was close to? Someone she may have confided in?”

  Two of Mrs. Ortiz’s fingers tapped her chin as she thought about it. “There was that one young lady from the cleaning service. Oh, what was her name?” She pursed her lips. Several seconds slipped past. She sighed. “I can’t remember her name. She worked for the housekeeping company that came in in the afternoons and evenings to clean. Actually, the three of them were thick as thieves now that I think about it. I used to catch them out back smoking cigarettes and giggling about this or that. No one would have noticed if it was just Belinda and the cleaning girl, but Sophia—well, people expected a judge’s wife to act a certain way. I talked with her a few times about not acting like a teenager cutting school.”

  “Do you remember the name of the cleaning service?” Josie asked.

  “No, no I don’t.”

  “What about the girl from the service that Belinda and Sophia used to hang out with?” Noah asked. “What did she look like?”

  “Oh, she was very pretty,” said
Mrs. Ortiz. “She had long, black hair. Almost down to her rear end. Blue eyes. She was very thin—not like Belinda or Sophia. No, the cleaning girl was thin as a rail.”

  “How old was she?”

  “I’m not sure, dear, but she was young. Maybe in her twenties.”

  Josie felt Noah’s eyes on her but didn’t look at him. Her mother had to have been young enough to pass for eighteen when she stole Belinda’s identity. She had blue eyes and had always worn her black hair down to her backside. By fourteen, Josie had outweighed her mother. It was the drugs, Josie knew now. Her mother had survived almost entirely on drugs, and not much else. Food had never been a priority in their trailer. Josie shot Noah a quick glance, communicating with her eyes. It could be her. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Do you remember who owned the cleaning service?” Noah asked. “Or the names of anyone else who worked there?”

  Mrs. Ortiz shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. They went out of business decades ago. Maybe someone on your staff would remember? They had municipal contracts with all the police departments in the county as well. They had different cleaning crews that went to different buildings, but if you’re just looking for the name of the company, any one of the police departments would have had a contract with them in the early ’80s.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Sergeant Dan Lamay ran a hand over his thinning gray hair and shook his head slowly. “A cleaning service?” he said. “In the ’80s?” He took another moment to think about it while Josie, Gretchen, and Noah stared at him. Lamay was the oldest officer on the force, and the only one who had been around in the 1980s. His career had survived the ushering in and out of four different chiefs of police, as well as one mighty scandal. He was nearing retirement age, with a bad knee and a paunch that stretched his uniform shirt more each day. But Josie knew that with his wife battling cancer, and a daughter in college, he needed both his income and health benefits, so she kept him on and assigned him to the lobby desk.