Barb came to a screeching halt as she saw the sedan pull up in the driveway behind her. Pushing the car into park, she got out, furious. “Hey, what the hell is going on?” she shouted, gesturing wildly. “What do you want? Why are you stalking me?”
A tall strawberry blond man in a suit stepped out of the car and walked toward her. “Are you Barbara Barton?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?” she answered rudely.
“Ma'am, I'm Detective Jake Kelly from the OCPD. I need to ask you a few questions,” he replied, tipping his hat.
The blood drained from her face. She had no idea what to say. If she made crap up, they'd know for sure her story as bogus and try to nail her as an accessory to murder.
“Sure, ask me anything, but please hurry, I have a lot to do today,” she said, offering her best fake smile.
She hoped that by buttering him up, he might make it easier on her. Or perhaps the ole’ flirting scheme that worked on men in the past might do the trick. The only way to find out; she’d wait to see how he’d react to her charms. She straightened her back and stuck her boobs out.
Detective Kelly blushed. “Ummm…do you think we could talk inside? We might be more comfortable sitting down for this interview.”
“I don't have time for this, but if you insist.” She dazzled him with her best Miss Georgia Peach smile, grabbed her purse from the front seat, and motioned him toward the house. Getting her keys out to unlock the door, her hand trembled, making it hard to put the key in the hole. Detective Kelly watched her with eyebrows steadily climbing his forehead. Finally able steady her hand, she opened the door and invited him in.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked, hoping he’d say no.
“Sure, that would be great.”
As Barbara warmed up the cold coffee from this morning, Detective Kelly noticed several pictures hanging on the walls. “Is this Claire?” he asked, studying the picture of a beautiful blonde girl with startling green eyes sitting on a log in a fake wooded setting.
Spinning to look, she replied, “Yes, that’s our sweet little Claire. That's her senior picture.” She worried he'd get the wrong impression of her. She couldn't appear nonchalant, as if she didn’t have any remorse for her daughter’s disappearance.
Pouring his cup full, she invited him to sit. “So, what do you want to know?” Barbara asked, attempting a sad smile.
“Well, ma’am, we were able to match your daughter’s DNA from the hair samples you brought in to the blood on the ground and on the knife used to…well, you know. We have several things to cover so we can piece this puzzle together for the investigation. As I understand it, you told the department Claire came to you from death and told you and your husband who killed her, is that correct?” His steely-eyed gaze drilled her to her chair.
What other way could Barbara describe what happened the night Claire contacted her from beyond? Now she had to justify her accusations, as her story unraveled right before her eyes. It even seemed ridiculous to her. This cop would see right through her.
“Detective Kelly, now I know this might sound whacked, but the story I told is the honest truth. Claire came to us that night and told us Jennifer Cravens was responsible for her death. She wrote it on a chalkboard in the living room.”
“Are you through, because now I’d like to tell you something,” he replied, getting testy. “Mrs. Barton, before you go and interrupt me, I think you should know we also questioned your husband. You and your husband both claim she came from the afterlife and told you what had happened, and that all six girls went to Old Creek Cemetery, but he said she never wrote anything about Jennifer being responsible. Now who's lying?”
“But it's true,” she stood up, getting agitated now. She had to make him believe her. Somebody had to pay for her daughter's death, and Jennifer Cravens was the patsy.
“I don’t think you heard me, and I don’t think you understand what it is that I’m trying to say. I don’t buy your story. How could she write anything, Mrs. Barton, after she was dead? You saw the note in her diary about the cemetery, and I think you wrote the message yourself out of some misguided try at retribution.”
The room grew silent right before she exploded. “Detective Kelly, I know what I saw on the chalkboard and it was her! I recognized her handwriting. Mike and I were there and we witnessed the entire event,” she shouted.
“I want to see this mysterious writing on the chalkboard for myself. It will have to go to the lab for analyzes and be compared to your handwriting,” he demanded.
Leaping to her feet, she stormed into the living room and pulled the chalkboard off the wall. This would show him, the self-righteous bastard. But as she looked down for the words Claire had so painstakingly written, the slate appeared smooth, black—and empty.
Claire's words dematerialized. Barb's heart started to pound, thumping through her veins. Who erased it? New fear coursed through her. She had no proof Claire visited the house. She couldn't prove it. If she showed him a blank slate, he'd laugh in her face. She frantically looked at the back of the front door, and those words had mysteriously disappeared as well. Trying to stall, she opened the hall closet door and shoved the chalkboard inside.
Walking back to the kitchen empty-handed, she said as calmly as she could, “You know, I can’t find the darn thing anywhere. I guess Mike may have put it away for safekeeping. When he gets home this evening, I'll have him get it and you are more than welcome to come back.” Praying he believed her, she stood waiting for him to answer.
“Mrs. Barton, either tell me the truth here or I'll have to take you down to the station. My time is precious, and I don't have enough for these games.”
Barb sighed. What choice did she have? Out of desperation, she began to talk. “Fine, Claire never told us Jennifer killed her, I swear. I made that part of the story up. I told them Claire said Jennifer did it, but that was because I was angry. You have to believe me.” She twisted a corner of her sweater into a ball.
“Mrs. Barton, you must have a reason for accusing Jennifer of foul deeds. This is unbelievable. You're incriminating yourself with your lies and you don’t even realize it,” he said sarcastically.
“Look, the reason I knew about Old Creek Cemetery to begin with is because like I told you, Claire came to us and told us that’s where they'd gone. I didn't find her diary until the next day, and that confirmed what she wrote. At first, I was so relieved to know Claire was all right that I ran over to the Cravens to tell them. I thought I was okay with this. But the next day, I got so angry with them because their daughter was alive and mine wasn't that I tried to put the blame on Jennifer. My only guilt is accusing Jennifer of the murder, not of lying about the writing on the chalkboard.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, he scowled at her. “You and your husband were the only ones who knew where the girls went,” he demanded. “Because we found massive amounts of Claire’s blood at the scene, we suspect somebody murdered her at the gates, but her body mysteriously disappeared. Can you explain to me how it happened? Mrs. Barton, for the last time, where is Claire?”
“You think I took her body? How dare you come into my home and accuse me of such a horrible thing!” She shuddered.
“What do you know about Jennifer's disappearance from the hospital after her suicide attempt?”
“What? Jennifer tried to commit suicide? Jeez.” Inside, Barb secretly smiled.
“Jennifer Cravens is missing. Did you have anything to do with that?”
Raging mad and insulted, she grabbed his jacket and slung it straight at him. “I think it’s time for you to get out of my house. Now get out,” she ordered.
“This is not over, lady. I suggest you get yourself a damn good lawyer, because you’re gonna need one.”
Picking up his hat, he strolled through the door and she slammed it behind him. Barbara had had enough. She so wanted to blame everything on Jennifer. She envied Cindy for having her daughter back and she couldn’t deal with it
. She felt that if she couldn’t have Claire, Cindy shouldn’t have Jennifer.
The bitterness was so strong, so overwhelming, it felt like knives twisting in her guts. It thrilled her that Jennifer went missing again. Let them suffer now. Getting revenge against those people who caused the death of her precious little girl would satisfy her; after all that's what she did best to those she despised. She didn't get mad she got even. Thinking of a way to tear the Cravens apart, she grabbed her purse and ran out the door.
***
“Honey, is that you?” Cindy yelled, hearing the front door open and slam shut. She glanced at the clock. It was 10:30 a.m. She walked in to see him standing in the living room. “Hey, you’re home early, how come?”
Undoing his tie and kicking off his shoes, he slung them hard enough across the room to bounce off the wall.
Cindy cringed. “What's going on, Steve? Do you want to talk about it?”
Steve flopped down on the recliner and looked straight ahead, avoiding her gaze.
“I guess you’re not going to tell me why you’re so pissed off, so I’ll leave you alone until you feel like sharing.” As she stormed across the room to go throw a pot against the wall, Steve jumped up and chased after her.
“I lost my job, okay? There, I said it…they fired me. Are you happy now?”
Spasms twitched across Cindy’s face as she went limp in the knees. She stumbled back to the couch and sat down. “What do you mean fired? You have seniority,” Cindy cried, sick to her stomach.
“Just what I said, I have no job,” he shouted loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. He sank back down into the recliner and put his head in his hands.
“You've been with that lousy outfit for over fifteen years. You're a senior manager, for goodness sake. What did you do, Steven? Did you screw something up?”
“Why do you always assume it's my fault? You know how hard I work. How can you say that to me?”
“Then how can they do this? Why?” Cindy’s mind had trouble absorbing the bad news, leaving her with nothing but an empty feeling and a blank mind.
She wanted to give up. It happened all too fast—the bad luck followed them around like some evil curse, taking charge of their lives, destroying everything good they ever had or did. Cindy wanted nothing to do with this anguish anymore, or this house, or the town where they lived. She hated Old Creek, and despised the people who lived there. She began to despise Steven. If she'd made wiser decisions, she'd have taken Jennifer and left him a while ago before any of it had a chance to start.
***
As Steve sat there in a daze, holding his aching head in his hands, he glanced over at his wife and exploded with misguided rage. “Why? WHY? Because they can. Their excuse was they are 'downsizing the company'. Bull freaking crap. They're afraid of the stigma of one of their employees having a murderer for a daughter. I've slaved for years, put in all those hours, and wasted half my weekends for them suckers, so where is the appreciation for what I did? Their freaking image is more important than our child.” He was livid. “On top of Jennifer missing, now I have to worry about finding a job before all your bills start to pile up and the mortgage is due.”
His attitude suggested Cindy brought on this misfortune.
“Call my dad. I know he’ll put you to work until you can find another job. Don't forget we have to get a lawyer for Jennifer. They don't come cheap.”
“We don't even know if Jennifer’s alive. And I’m not calling your father for a stupid job. There’s nothing I want to do at his country-farm garage. I spent my high school years working as a grease monkey, and I promised myself the day I graduated from college that I would never have grease under my fingernails again. Besides, you want to make them worry more. Jennifer has been gone for two days now, Cindy, and if they found out about this latest stunt of hers—well, I’m not having it,” he groused.
Instead of Steve swallowing his pride, he would rather make his family do without, and lose what he worked so hard to get before asking her father for a simple favor. Her parent’s could afford it. They'd inherited plenty from her grandpa, including the farm and land they lived on. The pompous attitude he'd displayed for years of needing to do it all himself had, at one time, caused major problems in their marriage.
By refusing to accept help from his father-in-law, Steve alienated him. Her parents felt rejected and cut off from their daughter. Before Jennifer’s birth, Steve attended college. They had to live in a tiny walk-up apartment, drove around in a beat-up Volkswagen with ripped seats, and depended on the government to feed them.
He hadn't changed a bit in twenty years. It became all too clear the old Steve resurfaced. He was about to replay the harsh, miserable existence that dang near killed them. All out of pride.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cindy's abdominal muscles contracted with labor-like pains rippling across her midriff and around to her back. The food she gorged on at lunch backwashed into her throat, burning like acid and gagging her. She huffed as she walked out of the family room. Frustration mounted at her inability to keep from losing everything in her stomach before she made it to the bathroom. Her face tightened and a feverish sensation spread on her cheeks; sweat broke out in rivulets along her forehead and her body trembled. It took her ten minutes to recover.
She walked toward the kitchen, intent on getting a Coke for her stomach. As she bashed the swinging doors open with her palm, she stood shocked for a moment at the mess Steve left from when he made their lunch hours ago. Macaroni and cheese crusted to concrete in the saucepan on the stove. Sandwich breadcrumbs and condiments littered the counters. He hadn't even rinsed off his plate that sat on the table. She cussed and stormed toward the kitchen sink.
Getting her hands on the clean dishes sitting in the dishwasher, she made a god-awful clattering as she put them away. Maybe she clanged the dishes a tad too much to get the old man's attention. Maybe she wanted to piss him off. Cindy hated her boring life, abhorred the things she used to take pride in doing.
Steve didn’t pay much attention to her needs anymore, and he'd taken to scolding her for every thing she left undone. Banging the pots and pans around under the kitchen cabinet, she cussed every time a lid refused to stay put. Steve finally stormed in to see what happened.
“I'm trying to watch a game. Do you think you can be quieter? Gees, woman, are you trying to wake the dead?” he complained.
“Oh, that was an intelligent analogy. How frickin' insensitive can you get? Excuuuuse me for bothering you. I figured if I made enough noise, you’d get off your ass and come in here and help,” she replied arranging the bowls in the top-shelf. “And guess what? It worked.” Cindy breezed past him to collect the dishes off the table. “You left a mess when you fixed lunch. The least you can do is help me clean it up. I don't feel well.”
His insensitive nature caused her habitual fatigue. He put his feelings before everyone else’s. Seeing the mess he'd left in the kitchen put her over the edge, and she refused to hold back.
“Cindy, when did you start swearing? You used to hate it.”
“Oh, shut up. It's none of your business how I choose to talk.” She sneered at him.
Steve sighed and turned on the hot water. “I have a suggestion. I think it would be best if you go stay with your parents for a few days. You need the rest and I’m afraid if you don’t calm down, you’ll wind up in the hospital,” he said. “I want you to see a doctor.”
How dare he suggest that? She didn’t need any doctors telling her she had a mental illness. She needed a real man to take care of her. Enraged, Cindy spun around. “You go stay with my parents, because I’m not going anywhere. All I’m worried about is my daughter, and God only knows where she is. You tell me the Watsons have her and they're going to kill her, but you won't let me call the police. I can’t believe you’d consider asking me to leave.” Cindy kept scrubbing the counters, turning her back on her husband and dismissing his 'suggestion'.
Slinging
the soaked dishrag out of the sink, she slapped it on the Formica and cleared away the breadcrumbs.
“Are you gonna wring out the rag? You’re making a bigger mess,” he said, standing back watching her work like a wind-up bunny.
“You never mind what I do, Steven. I know what I’m doing. Besides, when’s the last time you washed the dishes or wiped down anything?” she asked, running the rag down the center of the stove. “Who are you to tell me how to clean?”
“Fine, Cindy. I don't want to argue with you. I take it you’re not interested in staying with your mom and dad?”
Cindy stared at him and jabbed him in the chest with her finger. “You heard me. Don’t ask me that again, buddy, because that’ll be the last time. You wanna make me happy, shut your mouth.” She turned and slammed the door of the dishwasher so hard, it popped open again.
Maddie Ann s Playground Page 30
