Beyond the Quiet: Romantic Thriller

by Brenda Hill

  I wasn’t ready to get involved with anyone right now, and especially not with Terry. He needed someone he could depend on, and God knows, at the moment that wasn’t me.

  And then there was his illness. How much of what he had told me could I believe? Was his illness truly as bad as he’d alleged, or had he embellished the facts so I’d feel more sympathy? I decided to check.

  Slipping out of bed, I booted up the computer and searched for information; what I found was heartbreaking. Victims of Huntington’s lost all their motor functions and became totally helpless, usually succumbing within a few years. So far there was no cure, although, since science had discovered the gene that caused the disease, researchers were actively trying to find therapies to slow the progression.

  Feeling sick at heart, I stumbled back to bed. What a horrible thing to have happened to him. I hoped he did grab onto life for the time he had left. I wished him happiness, but it couldn’t be with me. I might be a cold and terrible human being, but there was no way I could watch another man I loved suffer and die.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over the next few days, Terry phoned several times. While I was glad to hear his voice, I let his calls go to the machine. At first, I think he assumed I was busy with work, but in the last call, he asked why I wasn’t answering. Even though I was standing by the phone as he talked, I didn’t pick up. I just couldn’t face telling him I was too cowardly to get involved.

  Early one morning while I was surfing the net for local private investigators, Nina called and begged me to come in for floor duty. The scheduled agent called in sick, and she needed someone licensed to answer phone inquiries about Ben’s new ads.

  I tried to beg off. Since the episode with Rick, I’d avoided the office even more, only dashing in after making sure his car wasn’t in the parking area. But trapped in the office for several hours, I was sure he’d drop in at one point or another and I’d be forced to see him.

  “What about Ed?” I asked, hedging. I hadn’t told Ben what happened, hadn’t decided whether or not I even should. I’d never been one to carry tales, and I’d always considered a man/woman thing something I should handle. I just didn’t want to make myself a visible target by being chained to a desk all day.

  “Ed can’t come in until later,” Nina said, “and everyone else has appointments. Please, Lisa, just for the morning.”

  “Rick has a morning appointment?” I was surprised. According to the office gossip, he usually made his appointments at night.

  “Oh, he’s disappeared. It’s the strangest thing. He didn’t answer his phone, and the other day I found a note on my desk telling me he’d quit. Must’ve come in the middle of the night and cleaned out his desk. No one’s heard anything since.”

  Rick had quit work? Oh, thank God. Maybe he was embarrassed enough to never show his face to me again. But I could only hope, because, as arrogant as he had been, I couldn’t be sure.

  ***

  From my desk at the office, I called an investigation firm near the casino in Highlands, and the investigator had a cancellation the next afternoon. Great. I’d take my jar of quarters and play a few dollars on the slots, treat myself to lunch at the buffet, and then make the appointment. I deserved to splurge a little.

  While I knew I was making progress in my life, I still suffered though down times when I wondered what to do, times of panic when I felt I needed a smaller place with smaller payments. I’d feel less pressure about the monthly bills, and best of all, I’d be able to pay Stan and Maggie the money I owed them. No matter what anyone said or thought, borrowing money from family and friends was the fastest way to hard feelings. But, since I didn’t feel I could afford the time just yet to look for an apartment or the settling-in time, I hadn’t yet made a decision.

  Maybe the problem was timing. Maybe I couldn’t make decisions about my future until I knew the truth about the past.

  Later that morning a woman called about a new listing in Yucaipa, so I made a lunch-hour appointment to give her a tour. Various agents had come and gone, and luckily, right before lunch, old faithful Ed appeared. I knew Nina could talk him into staying, so I grabbed my briefcase and almost ran out the door.

  ***

  Doris Matlock had requested that we meet at the house, and as soon as I saw her, I wanted to hug Nina for roping me into the office. A woman about my age, Doris had the look of someone who cared about her appearance, and I translated that into someone who also cared about her finances. Her white trousers, spotless white sandals, and a sleeveless linen blouse were complimented by her perfectly coifed blond hair. I’d bet a month’s salary she paid every bill ahead of time and had a perfect credit history. I almost did the happy dance, thanking the fates that I was fortunate enough to have been on the other end of the phone that morning. Selling a house to her meant another commission, and I could live as I had been doing for another couple of months. I prayed she’d like the house.

  I hadn’t seen this particular home, but the three-bedroom blue stucco with white trim and two shade trees in the front appeared in good condition. The lawn had turned brown, but as Doris agreed, some water would help. I needed this commission so badly that I hoped the inside was nice.

  Scuffed hardwood floors were the first thing we saw, but surprisingly enough, Doris didn’t seem to mind.

  “My husband loves to tinker on his time off, so he and Bobby could take care of this,” she told me. Bobby was her son-in-law, and after talking to her a little more, I discovered she was buying a home for her daughter. They’d had some hard times near the east coast and she wanted to bring them to California.

  “I’ve looked at a lot of homes in the area,” she said, as we strolled through the living and dining room, “and I really like this one.” The paint was chipped in places and someone had taken black markers to the walls, but new paint would easily cover that. I couldn’t believe my luck and decided right then to treat Nina to dinner.

  But when we entered the kitchen, we came to an abrupt halt. My heart plunged to my toes. Except for one set of cupboards, the entire room had been gutted. There were no appliances, not even a sink, just big, gaping holes. No stove, no refrigerator, not even a floor. Someone had actually ripped up the linoleum, and scattered patches of the discolored linoleum littered the dirty wood floor.

  I tried to keep it light. “How handy did you say your husband is?” I asked with a smile. “We could submit an offer low enough to pay for a new kitchen,” I told her, but I knew from the expression on her face that I’d lost her.

  “Well, it was worth a look.” She spun around to leave.

  I couldn’t let her go. No matter what you’re selling, once a hot prospect leaves your sight, you might as well kiss her goodbye. Thinking fast, I suggested we look through my laptop. We could browse in my car or I could take her to a restaurant where she could look them over in comfort.

  “Perhaps later,” she hedged. “I have some errands I need to run.”

  “It’ll just take a moment and you could see at a glance what’s available in the area.” I headed for my car, using the age-old technique that salespeople had been taught from year one, that of suggesting we show the prospect something and walking toward it immediately, before they have time to think it over. Most of the time, so as to not appear rude, the customer will follow. Normally I didn’t like to use sales techniques, preferring instead good, old-fashioned honesty, but I needed this sale. I didn’t hesitate as I headed for the car, hoping, praying she’d follow.

  “This will just take a moment and it’ll save you a lot of time.” Watching her, I held the car door open, patiently waiting.

  What would she do? I tried not to look desperate.

  “Well, for just for a moment,” she said, and slipped into the passenger seat.

  Thank you, God.

  Inside the car, I pulled out my laptop and scrolled through the listings, showing her pictures and gauging her reactions. I asked what she’d like in a home, and her answers told m
e she and her daughter loved to cook.

  Ah ha! I knew the one to show her, a listing that hadn’t sold because the price was competitive with the current market. But it was in excellent condition and had a gourmet kitchen.

  The house sat on a quiet cul-de-sac off Bryant Street, near the back road to Big Bear. Along with its neighbors, it was Southwestern in style with arches and a covered entry. When we pulled in front of the house, I was thrilled to see the cacti in bloom. Little white flowers with yellow centers similar to daisies clustered on the top of the barrel as well as on the tips of the upward curving arms. An iridescent hummingbird hovering nearby streaked away as we approached the house. Flowering bougainvillea vines climbed the attached garage wall, adding a splash of brilliant red to the beige stucco. It was such a perfect first impression that I almost hugged myself with glee.

  Doris liked the outside, loved the red ceramic tiled entry and the polished hardwood floors. My hopes shot skyward. She approved of the double sinks in the master bath and the walk-in closet, but again, it was the kitchen that would make or break the deal. As soon as we entered and I saw her face, I knew I had her.

  Running the length of the house, the kitchen had been updated with granite counters, tiled floors and a walk-in pantry. A tiled center island held another sink, and when Doris saw an indoor grill surrounded by red brick, she was ready to write a contract on the spot. I had a hard time maintaining a professional demeanor as I wanted to jump up and down like a kid. The commission just from this house alone would get me through the next few months.

  “Manny will love this,” she said, speaking of her husband. If fact, she knew Manny would love it so much that she decided they would take this property and let her daughter and family take over the one she currently owned.

  We wrote a contract and I celebrated by treating her to my favorite Thai restaurant in Yucaipa near County Line Road. With one contract approved and hers a sure thing, I was beginning to think I could make it after all.

  ***

  Maxine Piotrowski didn’t look like a private investigator. I think I expected a modern version of Morticia, but she was a mature woman with short blond hair casually styled for comfort and ease, and she wore an apple green pantsuit that matched the exact shade of her eyes. Simple gold earrings, a Black Hills gold ring, and a slim gold watch completed her outfit. As she welcomed me into her office, her calm, efficient manner put me instantly at ease.

  After taking our seats at her desk, she smiled. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

  Checking the time to make sure I didn’t go over my allotted hour and incur another fee, I told her everything about Mac, his illness, and what had happened after he died.

  Maxine listened quietly, interrupting occasionally to ask a question, jotting notes in a spiral notebook. I gave her copies of all the paperwork I could find, including Mac’s and my birth certificates, records of our marriage, his death, and anything else I thought might be relevant. She thumbed through the pages, then placed her pen carefully by the notebook.

  “Lisa, it’s a terrible thing to have happen, but you should know you’re not the first spouse to be duped. A partner could make a bad investment and not tell his spouse, or, it could be a gambling problem. This area has several large casinos and more than one person has become hooked. Maybe it’s drug-related. Who knows? It happens.”

  “None of those sound like my husband. But then again, if he was capable of taking all our money, I’m not so sure I really knew him at all.”

  “At least you have a little to tide you over for a month or two.”

  I told her about my frustration at the bank.

  She nodded. “The Privacy Act has put a damper on some of our investigations. Congress originally passed it in the seventies to protect individuals’ information from federal agencies, and another chapter was added in the eighties. Sometimes we could work around it, but the latest additions have made that almost impossible.”

  “That’s not very encouraging.”

  “One thing you should know,” she told me, “no matter how cagey a cheating spouse may think they are, they always leave clues. It doesn’t matter if it’s a police investigation, a securities breach, or a husband absconding with the marital monies, there are clues if you know where to look.”

  “But I’ve searched everywhere. After he died, my daughter and I went through everything in that house and I did so again after I found out the money was gone.”

  “Sometimes it’s a matter of interpretation. Perhaps you’ve seen something but it didn’t register. That’s where an experienced investigation firm comes in. Our job is to find the clue and solve the puzzle.”

  “So you think you can find what he did with the money?”

  Maxine pulled out a notepad from her drawer. “Everything in today’s society leaves a paper trail, Lisa, and I work with some great people. We have computer experts who can find what color baby blanket a hospital nursery used forty years ago and can track a transaction that’s changed hands so many times you’d think it never occurred. Our field experts can trace a deadbeat father or find his drug connections, all without anyone having any idea they’re around. But it takes time and effort. Time, as they say, is money. I’m not sure you can afford it.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “My firm charges one hundred dollars an hour. And we’d need a retainer, up to twenty-five hundred.”

  Just like they say in the old melodramas, I gasped. No way could I afford that. Today’s seventy-five dollar consultation fee would be difficult enough to pay.

  “We could start with a computer search of your husband’s name,” Maxine continued, “using his social security number and driver’s license. If he used another address to send bank statements, we could find it. That search could range from seventy-five dollars to three-hundred.”

  “If you can get my money back,” I told Maxine, “it would be worth it.”

  Maxine shook her head. “You must realize there’s no guarantees. While I’d love to earn a fee, this work isn’t a product like a new car. Some people search for hidden addresses or lost documents for years and never find them. Even if we could get around the Privacy Act and trace where he sent the money, there may be nothing left. Can you afford to chance it?”

  She was right. Could I risk spending more money to chase after a possible illusion? If my situation were even a little better, or if I didn’t owe my best friends, I’d chance it. But now, I couldn’t risk getting more in debt.

  My last hope dissolved with her words. I’d grasped at the possibility that she, or someone like her, could help me. Now, I realized there might be no hope.

  Trying my damnedest not to break down in front of her, I rose. Keeping my head down I thanked her and gathered my folder. This sudden propensity to cry was getting to me.

  “Lisa,” Maxine said, snapping me back to the present, “I’d like to help you, but I understand your financial situation.” She checked her watch. “We have a few more minutes. Please, sit down and let me think.”

  While I waited, she turned to her computer and entered something, the clacking keys sounding like heavy construction equipment in the quiet room. Absently, I watched her long fingers with their beautifully manicured nails tap out a command. Instead of the popular French-tip craze, she wore a transparent rose shade. A moment passed, or it could have been an hour as I drifted, knowing I had no place else to go for help.

  “Have you checked everything in your home and safety deposit box?” she asked, her eyes still on the screen. “All the scraps of paper that may have an account number? Sometimes, when a person has something to hide, they’ll jot down a series of numbers embedded in something else.”

  I didn’t remember seeing anything like that, but I felt a renewed grain of hope. Perhaps I had missed something after all.

  Maxine turned to me. “Did your husband like to read? Perhaps he left some type of code on a bookmark or in a sock drawer.” When I shook my head, she continued. />
  “How about his hobbies? Did he play golf? Cards? Belong to a gym where he could keep records in a locker?”

  Everything she said seemed to eliminate one more possibility. “I’ve checked all that,” I told her. “There’s nothing.”

  “Any other equipment at home?”

  “He loved to fish and hunt. Stan, Mac’s brother, usually went with him, but we’ve looked through everything. Stan has the rods and guns now.”

  I didn’t add that I had Mac’s Colt .45 handgun in the bookcase headboard where he’d always kept it. Not only did it offer me a sense of security, but it also held memories of trips to the desert, where, when we were newly married, using cans for targets, he had taught me to shoot. He’d always preferred Stan’s company when he wanted to hunt big game, but he said he thought it important for me to learn how to protect myself. But it was simply a gun, with no hidden chambers.

  “Any other personal items your husband had access to?”

  Unable to speak, I shook my head.

  “Perhaps later you can think of something,” Maxine replied. “I hope so, for your sake. When you get home, search anything that may have been overlooked. The most unlikely place may hold a clue.”

  “Thank you,” I said and pulled out my checkbook. “I appreciate your help.”

  With a businesslike air, Maxine took a receipt book from the drawer. “The charge for consultation today is one dollar.”

  I almost lost it then. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying.

  ***

  At home, I changed from my pantsuit into my zippered robe so I could be comfortable while going through the house again. The only problem was, I’d already searched the house several times and I couldn’t think of a single place I hadn’t looked before. But I had to try.

  Where could Mac have hidden a secret code or deposit slip? Lord, my life was beginning to sound like a spy novel.